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diff --git a/old/52729-8.txt b/old/52729-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index dc620fc..0000000 --- a/old/52729-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14236 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Round the Corner, by Gilbert Cannan - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Round the Corner - Being the Life and Death of Francis Christopher Folyat, - Bachelor of Divinity, and Father of a Large Family - -Author: Gilbert Cannan - -Release Date: August 5, 2016 [EBook #52729] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE CORNER *** - - - - -Produced by Paul Haxo with special thanks to Cornell -University, Princeton University, the Internet Archive, -and Google. - - - - - -ROUND THE CORNER - - - -_On veut essayer de peindre à la postérité, non les actions d'un seul -homme, mais l'esprit des hommes dans le siècle le plus éclairé qui fut -jamais._--SIÈCLE DE LOUIS XIV. - - -_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ -PETER HOMUNCULUS -LITTLE BROTHER - - - -ROUND THE CORNER - -BEING THE LIFE AND DEATH OF FRANCIS CHRISTOPHER FOLYAT, BACHELOR OF -DIVINITY AND FATHER OF A LARGE FAMILY - -BY GILBERT CANNAN - - -NEW YORK -D. APPLETON AND COMPANY -MCMXIII - - - -_TO MY MOTHER_ - -_We were happy, you and I, - In the days so long gone by, - When you gave me of the store - Of rich legendary lore, - Part saga, and part truth, - Of the days of your own youth. - Ah! The world was golden then! - How we scorned the world of men - In the days so long gone by! - We were happy, you and I._ - - -_First published_ 1913 - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - -A LITTLE PREFACE vii - -I. FRANCIS OBLIGES 1 - -II. THE CURATE MARRIES 9 - -III. ST. WITHANS 19 - -IV. FERN SQUARE 29 - -V. HOSTILITIES 40 - -VI. FREDERIC'S FRIENDS 50 - -VII. YOUNG WOMEN 58 - -VIII. SERGE 71 - -IX. INTERIOR 83 - -X. SUNDAY SUPPER 95 - -XI. ART AND DRAMA 107 - -XII. ANNETTE 119 - -XIII. IMBROGLIO 131 - -XIV. WHITE BEARD AND GREY 143 - -XV. WALKING HOME 156 - -XVI. MRS. FOLYAT DISSECTED 170 - -XVII. FREDERIC SNARED 177 - -XVIII. EXCURSION 186 - -XIX. GERTRUDE 200 - -XX. EDUCATION 210 - -XXI. MRS. ENTWISTLE'S HEART 218 - -XXII. LOVE 227 - -XXIII. BENNETT TELLS HIS MOTHER 241 - -XXIV. ANNETTE TELLS HER FATHER 247 - -XXV. LAWRIEAN PHILOSOPHY 260 - -XXVI. MINNA'S CHOICE 266 - -XXVII. GERTRUDE MAKES THE BEST OF IT 274 - -XXVIII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 280 - -XXIX. DISCUSSION 288 - -XXX. FREDERIC IN THE TOILS 295 - -XXXI. NEWS FROM MINNA 309 - -XXXII. THE CUTTING OF A KNOT 323 - -XXXIII. THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER 334 - -XXXIV. NUNC DIMITTIS 341 - - - -A LITTLE PREFACE - -Care I for the limbs, the thews, the stature, bulk and big assemblance -of a man? Give me the spirit. - HENRY IV, Part II. - -_Being of such a strange temper and vision that when I aim my pen at a -man I am as likely as not to hit his grandfather, I have in this -instance endeavoured to forestall the treachery of my faculties and to -go straight for the grandfather, though my interest is centred in the -man. In a sense I have written his life as it was long before he was -born, when he was nothing more than a growing presentiment. I have -found it instructive and entertaining to observe and follow the -evolution of the material, moral, and intellectual atmosphere which -was to bear on him first of all through his mother's mind, and then -through his own senses as soon as his life was separated from hers._ - -_I launch my hero upon the world and leave it to anybody who likes to -kill him, and I pray that those who are in process of morally -slaughtering their own innocents may take my imaginary child instead, -for there is no remedy for the murder of a living soul, but, should it -ever happen that my bantling demanded the right to continue his -existence and in his turn to become a father, I have only to revive -him, give him another name, and let him do his worst._ - -_My conscience has been greatly exercised for some time now over the -many errors and literary sins I have committed in the past--sins not -against the rules (there are none) but against the persons whom I have -forced to live in a mutilated, limited sort of life in the printed -page, and those other excellent persons whom I have invited to -collaborate in the fun of watching them. Upon these two sets of -persons I have too often forced my beliefs without making it clear to -them what my beliefs are. And here again I shall often seem to offend, -because, honestly, I can neither codify my beliefs nor force them into -any existing code. I can, however, give a hint at them by saying that, -in my view, we can only accept life with dignity and without injury to -our self-respect in perfect freedom--by which I shall be taken to mean -Licence. Freedom is a much-abused word, and when you use it to seven -men and women out of ten they at once think of a world full of satyrs. -When I use the word Freedom, I think of a world full of what Walt -Whitman, who had no sense of humour when he took pen in hand, called -"superb persons," that is, men and women who are not imprisoned in -their own thoughts. Only a man's own mind can make him a slave, and -every healthy human being from first to last of conscious life -struggles for the freedom of his own mind. We set about it often in -strange ways and make dreadful muddles, but the fight itself renders -life enjoyable, even if the aim be never attained. Freedom, of course, -like everything else, is subject to the limitations of this existence. -A man's thoughts, like his life, are bounded by birth and death. When -he tries to cast them beyond death they fall cold and lifeless, as -will be seen in much imaginative poetry, many spiritualistic theories, -and all presentations of Heaven. For reasons quite explicable when we -consider the dying belief in a sort of straight-line human progress, -men have never been interested in events antecedent to birth. I look -forward to the day when they will be as little interested in events -after death. A man's father and his son (mother and daughter included) -are all the past and future vouchsafed to him, and if he will take the -trouble to understand them he will find satisfaction and to spare for -what is at present called his thirst for immortality._ - -_I find immortality an admirable word upon which to end my preface, -but, in face of the grey tints of this composition, I must protest my -optimism, believing human life to be like a river, that, if it be -fouled, will run itself clear in time. Only, you must trace the poison -to its source and stop it._ - - - -I - -FRANCIS OBLIGES - -_One is One and all alone -And ever more shall be so._ - OLD SONG. - -THERE was once a time, and not so long ago either, when gentle people -were so gentle that the males could not (with the countenance of their -families) enter upon any profession other than the Army, the Navy, or -the Church. - -Francis Christopher Folyat was a male member of a gentle family that -had done no work for two generations and, unfortunately, had not been -clever enough to keep its revenues from dwindling. He was the eldest -son and he had two brothers, so that there was one Folyat for each of -the three professions, if enough patronage could be collected from -their various titled and more or less influential connections. Francis -had a snub nose, William had an aquiline nose which his mother adored, -and Peter had a nose which betrayed a very remote Jewish infection of -the blood of the race. - -Parenthetically let it be observed that the name Folyat should be -written with two little _f_s--ffolyat, for so the name was spelt by -the only really distinguished Folyat, Henry, who had been mixed up in -the Gunpowder Plot, so that his name is printed to this day in more -than one History of England, and to this day, in spite of its -deep-rooted conservatism, the family is proud of that insurgent son. -He marks its descent for all to see, and, as it is all so long ago, it -is easy to forget that he failed to do that for which certain -politicians have become infamous, namely, to blow up the House of -Lords and, with it, his cousins, the Baron Folyat and the Viscount -Bampfield of his day. He escaped from England, and the French -Feuillats, of whom the present representative keeps a newspaper kiosk -on the Rue de Rivoli, just outside the Métro station by the Louvre, -are his direct descendants. English interest in that branch of the -family ceases with the conspirator Henry. - -The grandfather of Francis Folyat had a seat in the country and a -mansion in London, also a coach and a barouche, an advowson or two, -and a vast number of servants; also a large collection of portraits, -including a Van Dyck, a Holbein, and a Sir Peter Lely. The father of -Francis Folyat left the seat in the country in a dilapidated -condition, and only so much else as he could not possibly avoid -leaving. However, Baron Folyat and Viscount Bampfield behaved very -handsomely and agreed to assist the widow with their patronage. Baron -Folyat's magnanimity stopped short at his promise, but Viscount -Bampfield was as good as his word, and when the time came for Francis -to enter upon a career he procured him a commission in His Majesty's -Army. Francis was highly delighted at this, and saw himself stepping -into the Duke of Wellington's shoes when that illustrious man should -be gathered to that fold where the most illustrious are even as the -meanest of God's creatures. He spent a glorious day in the top of his -favourite oak-tree in the park planning heroic wars for England and -telling the birds that at last they had something to sing about. He -had never thought of it before, but, as it had been decided that he -was to be a soldier, he flared to the project, saw himself in a red -coat charging like Marmion, or dancing at a ball like that described -so melodramatically by the wicked poet, Lord Byron, when Belgium's -capital had "gathered there her beauty and her chivalry"; more, since -it might be his duty to die for England, he fetched up an England -worth dying for, a heroic, majestic king, a cause, and a God cursing -England's enemies. He thoroughly enjoyed himself and prepared a -martial oration in good Ciceronic periods for his mother's benefit, -when, as he knew she would, she gave him her blessing and delivered -herself of a homily over her soldier-son. - -"I will be," he said, "a true Folyat, worthy of the name I bear." - -As he entered the house he met his brother William, whom he had always -disliked more than any one in the world--he had often prayed to God to -make him like William better--and he thought there was a curious look -in his eyes. He put it down to envy and liked William less than ever. -William sidled up to him and said: - -"Mother wishes to see you." - -A wish from their mother was a command, always obeyed, as he obeyed it -now. She was a very handsome woman. She had been the celebrated Miss -Cresitter and she never forgot it. She had been a toast, and queened -it accordingly. Her portrait had been painted by an extremely -fashionable and very indifferent painter and it hung in her room, the -best in the house. She wore a beautiful lace fichu and black lace -mittens, and the lines of her face were hard. Her hair was done in -ringlets on either side of her face and drawn up into a knot at the -back of her head. In front it was parted in the middle and plentifully -oiled. The furniture in the room was handsome and ponderous, and there -was nowhere an indication of any sort of recognition of the loveliness -of the view from the window. - -Francis stood, as he had been trained to do in his mother's presence, -and waited for her to speak. She was in no hurry and kept him -standing, and when she spoke he was startled, as he never failed to -be, by the rich tones of her voice. It was a magnificent voice, and -she knew it and used it caressingly, lingering on her favourite notes, -which she threw cunningly upon the open vowels. Francis was a fine -word for her purposes. She might have put a world of affection into -her intonation of it, but that seems never to have occurred to her. It -never occurred to Francis either. - -"Francis," she said, "I have been thinking." - -This called for no reply and Francis made none. - -"I do not think," she went on, "that you are altogether suitable for -the army. You are too gentle. You cannot say 'No.' You are--how shall -I say it?--too emotional, too much given to dreams. The life of a -soldier is stern and calls for resolution. The Folyats are, and always -have been, weak. There have been exceptions it is true, but I have -never seen any indication that you are one of them." - -Francis was cut to the quick, but he had never in his life doubted the -truth of anything his mother said, and, when she pointed out the -temptations of a soldier's life, he began to see himself as a feeble -will-less wastrel utterly unfitted to wear the king's uniform. Better -never to wear it than to disgrace it! It was quite as easy for him to -see himself in this light as to dream heroically of warlike deeds and -successful prowess. His mother played upon his foible and stripped him -mercilessly of red coat, sword, epaulets, cocked hat, and glorious -future. He capitulated and agreed that he was incapable of saying -"No," and was therefore unfitted to take up the commission so kindly -obtained for him by his cousin Bampfield. - -Having been robbed of his dream, he did not very much care what the -future held for him. His mother explained to him that she had very -little money and could leave him less, and that if he would go into -the Church his Cousin Bampfield could provide him with a living as -soon as he had been ordained. She could not send him to Oxford or -Cambridge, since the estate of a gentleman in those universities was -costly, but she had made inquiries and found that the University of -Dublin, the Irish being notoriously poor, could equip a divinity -student with Latin, Greek, Hebrew, theology, and a degree for a modest -annual sum. - -Francis embraced this plan miserably enough, and began to study the -Greek Testament with the vicar. The subject of the commission was -never reopened, and his mother was more amiable to him than she had -ever been. - -A few months later it was announced that William was to stay with -Cousin Bampfield, and Francis learned that the commission had been -transferred to his detested young brother. He lost his temper, waylaid -William, dragged him behind the stables, and thumped his aquiline nose -until it swelled and assumed a red and purple hue, and William howled -and vowed that if ever he could do his brother a mischief he would. No -hint of the combat ever reached their mother, in spite of her distress -at the damage to her William's beautiful nose, and the brothers went -their ways--William abroad, to stay with his aunt by marriage, the -Comtessa di Sangiorgi, and Francis to Dublin, where he lodged with a -slatternly Irishwoman, who corrupted his habits and encouraged him in -his natural indolence of mind and excessive good-nature. - -Of his university life nothing very definite is known. He was in every -way unremarkable. He was too simple and direct to achieve notoriety by -conflict with his fellow-undergraduates. He recognised that he was in -Dublin to procure a degree, and set himself to achieve that purpose -with the minimum of trouble. He acquired a taste for the Latin poets, -especially Juvenal, Horace, and Lucretius, and he was never weary of -reading the fragmentary novel of Petronius Arbiter. He had many -acquaintances and few friends, and he devoted much time to the growth -and cultivation of a long golden beard, which, together with his snub -nose, earned him the nickname of Socrates, or Old Soc. In Ireland he -was happier than he ever was again in all his long life, though, with -his large capacity for enjoyment, it cannot be said that he was ever -genuinely unhappy. In Ireland he found an atmosphere altogether -congenial to his temperament, which found its food in Rabelais, -Montaigne (Voltaire he would not read as he was going to be a -clergyman), and so led him to the conviction that English literature -was diverted from its true channel after the death of Henry Fielding. -(He once took a chaplaincy in Lisbon because he wished to see and to -honour the novelist's grave.) He made friends enough to be asked to -spend his vacations away from home, and was glad to have excuses to -give to his mother--excuses which he conveyed to her in letters -beginning "Dear Madam" and subscribed "Your obedient son." - -Nothing occurred to disturb his equable determination to enter the -Church, and after he had taken the degree of Bachelor of Divinity he -swallowed the Thirty-nine Articles without blinking and proceeded to -ordination at the hands of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, shortly after -the marriage of Queen Victoria with her cousin Prince Albert, not yet -either great or good, and almost within a week of his brother -William's departure with his regiment for India. - -For a few months he acted as chaplain in his cousin Lord Folyat's -household, and was amused to find his position as spiritual adviser -and curate of souls gave him a status slightly above that of the -butler and, so far as cordiality went, distinctly below that of the -huntsman who fed and trained the hounds. He comforted himself with the -reflection that his condition was at any rate better than that of -Parson Adams, though his deserts were less, and took steps to obtain -work independently of his family. This greatly upset madam, his -mother, who warned him that he might be jeopardising his chances of -the next family living. Within himself he argued that, being by -profession a shepherd of souls, he must not waste time in places where -there was not one to be found. He did not, however, lay this argument -before his mother, but accepted a curacy at one hundred and ten pounds -in South Devon, on a pleasant estuary, in a little town that had been -a seaport in old days, trading busily with France and the Netherlands, -and once familiar ground to Francis Drake and many another Elizabethan -adventurer. Here there might or might not be souls for his charge, but -there was the sea, and romance, and a heronry, and woods that were a -perfect paradise for birds. He went down to the place and wrote his -mother a very fine literary description of its natural beauties, which -he sent to her by the new penny post and promised that he would stay -with her for six days before he entered upon his new life. - -He arrived to find her in her great four-poster bed, shrivelled and -very little, and looking very old in the shadow of its massive -hangings. Her appearance shocked him. He had never seen anybody die, -and he had a strange feeling that he was being very unfairly treated, -and he realised painfully that in honouring his father's memory and -his mother he had enjoyed only a very unsatisfactory relationship. His -brother William was in India; Peter was on the high seas, and no word -was to be expected from him for three years or more. He was alone, and -he felt ashamed of his incapacity to grapple with the situation. His -mother, perhaps as a tactful tribute to the profession into which she -had forced him, asked him to read the Bible, and automatically he -turned to the Book of Ecclesiastes and read her the passage in the -last chapter which contains some of the soundest and most neglected -advice ever given to mankind. He made no attempt to reconcile it with -Christian teaching and his work, but found himself delighting in the -spiritual health of the words. His mother said: - -"Francis, you must read better than that." - -This rather irritated him, though he knew it was selfish and -inappropriate at such a time. He replied: - -"Mother, I could have wished to come to see you in a red coat. It has -been ordered that I should wear a black. I do not think I shall ever -be a bishop, but I will do my best to remain a gentleman and to be -worthy of the name I bear." - -His mother turned the subject and talked to him of material matters, -and made him promise to preserve intact the family portraits--twelve -in all. Certain articles of furniture and plate he was to keep in -trust for his brothers when they should return to England. William, -she said, was certain to be a general, and Peter could hardly fail, -with so much influence, to become an admiral. - -"And I," thought Francis, "am a stranger to ambition." - -Suddenly tears came to his eyes and he had a feeling of immense pity, -and it was so queer to him that he should have an overflowing emotion -in his mother's presence that he was relieved when this colloquy was -broken off by the entry of Dr. Fish, the physician from the town five -miles away, who still wore a wig and knee-breeches and looked like a -sparrow after a dust-bath. - -Francis left him with his patient and went into the fruit-garden to -enjoy a pipe of tobacco, a luxury which had mastered him in Dublin. He -learned there to smoke a clay pipe and bird's-eye tobacco and never -changed them for sixty years. - -Dr. Fish was rather a long time closeted in the dark room with the -great bed, and when he came down Francis met him with an anxious face. - -"Die?" said Dr. Fish. "Not a bit of it. She'll live to be a hundred." - -But to Francis she was already dead, and in his life thereafter she -was a ghost whom he regarded with a friendly eye. Never again did he -allow her to meddle in his affairs. - - - -II - -THE CURATE MARRIES - -_She's extremely pretty and loves thee entirely. I have heard her -breathe such raptures about thee._--THE OLD BACHELOR. - -POTSHAM then was very much what it is now. It is doubtful if fifty -houses were built in it in as many years. It had then a repairing dock -which provided work for the poor. It has now a jam factory. Then its -postmistress, with the aid of a kettle, opened all letters that looked -interesting. Only the other day a new resident discovered that his -private affairs were common property, and the postmistress was -deposed. Then, as now, the church, standing high above the river, was -the centre of the somnolent life of the place, and Francis Folyat -lived upon an eminence. He liked it. - -The little society of the place warmed to the curate when it was found -that he was welcomed in the houses of one or two of the county -families. When it was discovered that Viscount Bampfield was his first -cousin once removed, and that Baron Folyat was half a degree nearer in -kinship, he became a romantic figure. When a small girl read in her -history book that Henry Folyat was associated with Guy Fawkes, she ran -with her thumb between the leaves and showed the passage to her -governess, who showed it to her mother, who gave a dinner-party to -announce the discovery. Thenceforth the curate was bathed in a golden -light. - -He became the object of the most flattering attentions. Every woman in -the town showed herself a mother to him, and Miss Martha Brett won -from him the confession that his full name was Francis ffolyat -Christopher ffolyat-Folyat. She hugged this information to her bosom, -and gloated over the thought that it was hers and hers alone. She -devoured romances, though, being not yet seventeen, she was supposed -to confine her attentions to "The Fairchild Family" and Miss Maria -Edgeworth. In all innocence Francis lent her the poems of a young man -named Shelley who was still regarded as a blasphemous and immoral -writer. She could not read them, but did not tell him so, though she -distressed him by inviting him to read Mrs. Inchbald aloud to her in -the gazebo at the end of the garden, above the wall that was washed by -the river when the tide was up and slimed with mud when it was out. - -The curate's mind was at that time divided into two compartments, one -for literature and the other for religion. He saw no necessity for -reconciling the two things and made no attempt to do so. He regarded -religion as his work, and literature as an escape from it. Life was -extremely pleasant: lazy day succeeded lazy day. The obedient flock -was rounded into the church on Sunday and quite often on weekdays, for -there was no other place in which two or three could gather together. -The only tiny clouds in a fair blue sky were drink and dissent, and in -the lower classes an occasional outburst of immorality. Dissent was -ignored; drink was attacked by prayer; and immorality was defeated by -a hurried marriage where possible, and when that was out of the -question it was scarified by threats--sure promises even--of eternal -punishment. It was all a matter of routine, and so extremely pleasant -that Francis soon ceased to regret that he had stifled ambition with a -black coat. His vicar was a man who had taken a small active part in -the Tractarian movement, without in the least understanding its -spiritual significance. He had been attracted by the notion that the -Church existed in spite of Henry VIII, and not because of him, and -when his leaders told him to adopt the ideas of the Real Presence in -the Sacrament and the sacrificial priesthood of the clergy, he did so -without making any attempt to bring them into agreement with the facts -of his life or the practice of his profession. He instituted ritual in -his services, thus making them more entertaining to his flock, and, as -he had never looked for any rejuvenation of the spiritual life of his -parish, he was not disappointed by the result. He thought he was a -good man: everybody said he was a good man, and perhaps he was. - -Francis swallowed both his ideas and his goodness without difficulty, -examined the ritual of the services with interest and some enthusiasm, -corrected it in one or two points, and as he took nearly all the work -of the parish off the vicar's shoulders, there could not possibly be -any friction between them. The vicar congratulated himself on having -found a jewel of curates, and his wife began to dream dreams of vast -preferment obtained through the Folyat influence--a rural deanery, a -stall, a bishopric, and--why not?--Canterbury or York. - -Francis, on the other hand, gave no thought to the future and drifted -drowsily, most keenly enjoying himself in the summer days when he -could take a boat, a book, an old long-shoreman and fishing tackle, -and go down to the sand-banks at the mouth of the estuary and bathe -and fish and lie in the sun with his clay pipe between his teeth, and -his golden beard glistening and his blue eyes shining as he thought -that the world was very good and the sea almost the best of good -things in it. It was not his way to compare his lot with others, and -it had never occurred to him, except in his official capacity, to -criticise life. In that capacity he criticised not so much life as a -traditional concept of it. - -He was rudely awakened from this drowsy golden age by an event which -kept Potsham talking for a generation and a half. - -One night when he had been dining at Crabtrees, the house of Miss -Martha Brett's aunt, where there had been music and cribbage and a -walk down the garden to look at the moonlight on the sea, he returned -to his rooms to find them occupied by a man with a white face and -quivering lips and legs that would not be still. He was a poor man and -a sort of seafaring man, and he looked up and in a rustling voice he -said: - -"Parson, what sort of man would that man be. . . ?" - -Then he stopped and rattled in his throat, and Francis felt a curious -nausea as he looked at the man and saw how frightened he was. - -"What sort of man?" asked Francis, feeling that the question was -almost as meaningless as the man's words. - -"She's got a cut in her throat and a lot of blood. . . . I say." - -"I say," echoed Francis. - -"We'd better go," said the man. - -"Yes," said Francis. "Does anybody know?" - -"No," replied the man, "I been looking at her three hours." - -With that he seemed to gain control of himself, and his legs did not -shake any more and his lips set in a thin straight line. He stood up -and went to the door and Francis followed him. Very cunningly the man -looked at him and said: "You do know how a man could do it?" - -"No," said Francis, "unless----" - -However, the man seemed to be satisfied and led the way, and they -walked down the little crooked street called the Strand and came to a -little tumble-down house by the dock, and there they found the woman -even as the man had told. To Francis the adventure seemed to be -complete and fantastic, and he felt that he was outside it, that the -world had stopped and that it was very cold. Then he felt that it was -horrible and intolerable, simply because nothing could happen unless -he made it happen, and action had never been asked of him before. - -There was a tallow candle in a bottle, but it gave very little light. -The moon shone through the window, and its light was very pitiless and -grim. - -The man folded his arms and said with a sort of insistence: "You do -know how a man could do it!" - -The cold dead harshness of his voice brought Francis out of his -fantasy, and at last he found the word that had been buzzing in his -brain ever since he saw the man sitting in his chair: Murder. - -"No," he said, and he was astonished at the hardness of his own voice. - -He turned heavily, but the man was quicker than he. He saw him dart -through the door, run a little way up the street, go into a house, and -in an instant there sprang up a crowd of people whispering, murmuring, -buzzing, huddling, and crushing round the door of the little dark -house. They were a little awed when they saw the curate, but the crowd -hummed as new people came running up and the tale was told again. -Suddenly Francis felt a hand on his arm, and there was the man -clinging to him while the beadle and the policeman were tugging at him -to take him away. The man would not let go, but he was very strong, -and for some way Francis had to move with him through the crowd. Then -at last he wrenched free and watched the three figures cleave into the -crowd, part it, and then be swallowed up. - -He found himself standing at a place where, between two houses, he -could see the water swelling with the tide and a black boat rocking, -and over all the light of the moon. - -The machinery of the law passed over the murderer and he was hanged, -but Francis never told a soul how he had been drawn into the eddy of -the crime. His experience produced in him a feeling of profound -depression, from which he recovered slowly and painfully to find that -human beings had emerged from the landscape as they had never done -before. They demanded, a different sort of attention from that which -he had always given them, and at first he disliked them heartily. He -saw them in their habits, sadly, as they were--eating, drinking, -sleeping, gossiping, with very little to vary the monotony save -foolish love affairs and mean jealousies and petty quarrels. Nothing -that they did, not even their sins, seemed to be worth while. What -bothered him most was that he found himself sympathising with the -criminal and curiously desirous of defending him against the society -which had answered ferocity with ferocity. - -That did not last long. He was soon brought up against his ignorance -of the world outside and his entire lack of comparative standards, -and, as young men will, he thought that at all costs he must -escape--that is, move from the circumference of a dizzily spinning -world to the centre of it. - -First of all he came to the conclusion that he had religious doubts -and consulted his vicar, who bowled him over with professional -arguments. Against them he could only set his vivid sensation on that -strange night and his keen recollection of the tallow candle in the -bottle and the moon shining through the window; and of these he dared -not speak. He agreed perfectly that he had set his hand to the noblest -service in the world and had no right to look back. But looking -forward availed him nothing; the present was bewildering and the past -had suddenly become empty. The bung had been removed from the tight -barrel of his existence and all the good liquor had leaked away. - -However, he did his work neither better nor worse than he had done it -before. He christened children and churched women and married couples -and read solemn and beautiful words over the dead, and for the first -time began to ponder the meaning of these ceremonies. The Church, he -said, sanctified birth and death and what lay between them, and he -tried to persuade himself that it raised them from brutality, -spiritualised them, and made them holy; but then he could not help -feeling that there was some discrepancy. The facts remained the same, -therefore if they were sacred at all they must be sacred in -themselves. All that could be done by mind and Holy Writ, the product -of inspired minds, was nobly to interpret the facts, to see to it that -men lived nobly--lived nobly and nobly died. He had seen several -persons die, had given them the comfort of religion, and now, when he -remembered, he was struck principally by the dignity with which death -was accepted. It seemed to him that men had religion in themselves, -that it was not, could not be grafted on them from without. - -"Life," he said to himself, "is a religious thing, or it is something -less than life." - -He felt that he was moving from the circumference to the centre, and -then he realised that he was reaching only the centre of his own -thoughts, not the heart of the world. He had advanced in theory but in -practice was just as far out of his bearings as ever. He had fed -himself chiefly with the writings of ironists and he was hungry for -belief--in the nobility of life and death and the unity of all things. -The lives of birds he knew and the lives of beasts, but of the lives -of men he knew nothing at all. Never had he been to a great city, but -he conceived that there also the lives of men must be very much what -they were in the somnolent little town on the Devon estuary--they were -born, they suffered, and they died. That was all. Surely that was all. - -He would not have that. The ironists left it at that. He became -positive that the manner of it mattered--to Nature, perhaps, not at -all, but to men, and to God through men, vitally. To that end the Holy -Bible had been written and the Church founded, and to that end Keble -and Pusey had sought to rouse the Church from its indolence and -indifference. His vicar was right: he could not turn back, but he must -know wherein his work as a priest consisted. If it served any purpose -at all, it must be for the sanctification of life by endowing it with -a noble interpretation. - -Francis had no large conception of the universe. At this young period -of his life his notions were still mediæval. He believed the earth to -be stationary, Hell to be under his feet, and the Heavenly region to -be beyond the blue vault of the sky, and that human life led -infallibly to one or the other. A noble life, therefore, was that -which led to Heaven, and to this idea, and to the cosmogony it -implied, he shaped his ethics and his ideals, never suspecting that he -was sacrificing the greater to the less. - -When men sit down and think out schemes of life they nearly always -make the mistake of leaving women out of them. This is easily -understood in the case of young men for whom women hardly exist except -as an emotion, a fire that may at any moment flame into their -existence and lay it waste like the little foxes in the Bible. Our -curate made that mistake. Naturally he had been in love--never out of -it; but always he had worshipped from afar, and had thought the -objects of his adoration as insensible to it as the stars in the sky -to his wonder and delight. He was in love now, but could attach his -emotion to no particular young woman. There were at least four, and he -never credited them with any design when he met them out walking, or -they came to him on parish business or demanded his escort or -displayed their gardens to him. He enjoyed his emotions while he was -ashamed of them. They were not "noble." - -When next he sat--at her suggestion--with Miss Martha Brett in the -gazebo, he found himself thinking that she was very charming and -pretty with her brown ringlets on either side of her face and her -plump little shoulders peeping out of her gown, a modification of the -style made popular by the young Queen. She was so demure, so quiet, -and her manner of listening to him gave him such a sense of authority. -He felt it could never leave him, that he would never again have those -appalling moments in church when a gulf opened wide in front of him -and he felt that any one of his listeners had more right than he to be -talking and calling this black and that white. - -She sat by a little table and he sat on the other side of it with a -book in his hands, and she let her hand fall on the table so that it -lay flat, very white and soft and pink at the finger-tips, and in her -wrist was the most delicious little bone. He could see nothing else. -He gazed and gazed at it, then with a wrench turned to his book, but -his eyes were swimming so that the words swallowed each other up. - -Roses nodded in at the window, and the smell of the salt water came up -and mingled with the garden scents. - -"It is most moving," said Miss Martha. - -"Most," stuttered the Curate, and he looked up and saw warmth and -mischief in her eyes, and almost imperceptibly she edged her hand a -little nearer to him. - -Her aunt came in on that, and Francis heaved an immense sigh of relief -and went spluttering on with his reading as though he had been caught -out in some shameful act. - -When he left the house later in the evening he admitted to himself -that he was in love, and that Miss Martha was the most beautiful, the -most peerless, the most chaste, the most innocent of women, and he -called his emotion "gross desire" and tried to strangle it, and -suffered horribly. The more he wrestled with it, the more powerful it -grew. - -He was in love, and love swamped all his thoughts. He took long -solitary walks, and he hated all the couples whom he married and -envied them. They had passed through torment--Oh! who was the fool who -said that love was sweet? The old fleeting devotions had been -delicious--if shameful; but this, this was fire in the veins, scalding -thoughts, an obsession, a fixed idea. - -More to be rid of it than with any hope of success, he called upon -Miss Martha's aunt, and, coming straight to the point, blurted out -that he hoped she could regard him favourably as a suitor and would -grant him permission to ask for her niece's hand in marriage--exactly -as Miss Martha's aunt had planned that he should when he first came to -Potsham and she had satisfied herself as to his antecedents. He -explained that he was not rich but had every hope of being given a -family living as soon as one should fall vacant. To his amazement he -was informed that Miss Martha was something of an heiress, and would -own, when she came of age, thirteen houses in Potsham, subject to -leases, and one mortgage, a farm on Dartmoor, and fifty acres in -Cornwall. Her niece, the aunt added, had often expressed her great -admiration for Mr. Folyat, and, with her eyes gleaming exultation and -beatitude, she confessed that she could desire no better thing than to -see such coincidence between her own wishes and her niece's -affections. - -Francis took his leave praying devoutly that he might not meet his -Martha, but no sooner had he set foot outside the parlour door than -there she stood before him, and he could say nothing and she could say -nothing, until suddenly he caught her up in his arms and hugged her -and kissed her, set her down on her feet gasping, begged her pardon, -and blundered out of the house blushing furiously. - -Cousin Bampfield warmly congratulated his kinsman on his betrothal, -and, two adjacent livings in Cornwall presently falling vacant, gave -him both of them. - -There was a splendid wedding and the young couple spent their -honeymoon in London, for neither had ever before visited the capital. -They saw the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's -Cathedral, but Martha was impressed by nothing so much as her -husband's grandfather's town house in Curzon Street. She thought it -grand, and was never tired of hearing her husband tell of his gentle -family, the Folyats. - - - -III - -ST. WITHANS - -_Not knowing how to find the open air, -But toiling desperately to find it out._ - HENRY VI, Part III. - -IF Potsham was somnolent, St. Withans, our parson's Cornish living, -might well have been the home of the Sleeping Beauty. For a time it -was a place of enchantment while the charm and novelty of wedded love -were upon Francis and his Martha. They were blissfully happy: the -county welcomed them, they had a charming house and garden, a -carriage, money in plenty, children, and when they were bored with the -country they could escape to the gaiety of Plymouth. After they had -been married for five years they exchanged duties for a year with the -English chaplain at Hâvre-de-Grace in Normandy, and their fourth -child, a daughter, was born there. After that it became a habit with -them to go over to the Continent every year for a couple of months. - -Their sixth child died in infancy, their seventh only lived to be -three years old, but the eighth, ninth, and tenth were as healthy and -comely as the first five. - -It was a year or so after the birth of the tenth, in 1867, that they -began to discover that while their family had grown their income had -remained stationary. It was at that moment that for the first time -they began to think of what they had done and counted up the number of -their offspring, and realised that they had brought nine good lives -into the world and had to face the responsibility and, somehow or -other, establish them. - -These were the names of the young Folyats: Serge, Gertrude, Frederic, -Mary, Leedham, Minna, Annette, and James. - -Serge had early passed out of his parents' control, though not without -expense, for he had been sent into the Navy, from which, at the age of -fifteen, he deserted in Labrador and was only saved from court-martial -by being bought out of the service, to which end the farm on Dartmoor -and a house in Potsham were sold. He was not allowed to come home and, -since he refused to stay in America, a situation was found for him in -a bank in Kimberley, in South Africa, and his correspondence dwindled -and then ceased altogether. - -Frederic was at a Lycée in France, and the question of his career was -being indefinitely postponed. - -The girls were the problem. Gertrude and Mary had suddenly become -women and there was no man to ask them in marriage. An occasional -Folyat was sent to the Vicarage to be coached for some examination, -but they either only flirted or they fell desperately in love with -Minna, the beauty of the family, who was only fourteen. - -After Serge's escapade the carriage had to be given up, and since Mrs. -Folyat could not pay calls or visit at a distance, the county soon -forgot her and fewer and fewer distinguished ladies drove up to the -Vicarage. On the other hand, Mrs. Folyat's aspirations had offended -the ladies on whom the county did not call, and when the carriage was -disposed of and replaced by a little wicker donkey-cart they did not -conceal their rejoicing, and their tattle did not fail to reach Mrs. -Folyat's ears. She was confirmed in her conviction of the vulgarity of -trade, and she brooded over the situation without saying anything to -Francis. He said nothing to her and they skirted the problem. His -anxiety was entirely to make expenditure and income meet, and he -rather welcomed than deplored the defection of the county. It meant a -garden party the less and two of the servants could be dismissed. - -The crisis seemed to be tided over and the financial problem adjusted -when they were faced with the fact that Frederic was nineteen, of an -age to leave the Lycée, and that a profession must be found for him. -Mrs. Folyat decided on the Army, but Francis at once squashed that -and, all unconsciously, reproduced his mother's arguments. Frederic -was a Folyat and weak. Regimental life would be too dangerous for him. -The Church? Frederic, who was not a little Frenchified and rather -dreadfully freeminded, scornfully rejected the suggestion. . . The -Bar? Mrs. Folyat was sure Frederic would look well in a wig and gown, -and besides, judges and the law officers of the Crown were always -knighted. Frederic saw that this plan would take him to London, and he -jumped at it greedily. - -Francis went to Plymouth and saw his solicitor, who pointed out that -it was a matter of great expense and meant supporting the boy until he -was over thirty. Francis felt that the problem was insoluble, gave it -up for the time being, and consoled himself with buying a parrot from -a drunken sailor and a dog in a fancier's shop by the docks because it -was impossible to tell which was its head and which was its tail. He -called the dog "Muff" and the parrot "Sailor." - -Frederic sulked when he learned that he was not to go to the Bar and -went down to the village inn and came home very drunk. When he was -reproved, he asked what else there was to do in such a dead-alive -hole, and his father found it very difficult to reply. It was -painfully forced upon his attention that Frederic also had a mind, and -that it worked in a way entirely different from his own. This was -distressing, because for many years Francis had done all the thinking -necessary for his family, and that no great amount. He had an -intolerable sense of being cooped up with an enemy, and what -bewildered him most of all was to think that the enemy should be his -own son. He could not explain it to his wife, or to himself, for that -matter, but there it was, and he was thankful when Frederic chose to -absent himself from meals. - -At last, after much cogitation, he approached his wife with the -suggestion that they should make Frederic a solicitor. - -"An attorney!" said Martha, and Francis knew that she was thinking of -the common, dusty little man in Plymouth. - -Parents who have aspired to make their sons physicians and been forced -to stop short at dentistry will understand what torture it was to -Martha Folyat, and, in a less degree, to her husband, to descend from -the higher to the lower branch of the legal profession--no wig, no -gown, no access to the Bench, no prospective knighthood. It was a pill -and they swallowed it, putting as brave a face on it as possible, and -they were somewhat comforted when they found, upon inquiry, that a -family of undoubted gentility in the county had sent their son into a -solicitor's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields in London. - -Martha's ambition leaped within her, and she suggested that Frederic -also should be sent to London where he was more likely, if not to -meet, at least to handle the affairs of, the aristocracy. Who knows? -Even the Royal Family had legal business, and there was a great case -coming on to decide the succession of the collateral Folyats, somewhat -complicated by a bigamous old clergyman who for his third wife had -taken a negress in Africa. The case would be ripe just about the time -Frederic was qualified, and Willie Folyat, a possible heir, was one of -Minna's most devoted admirers. - -Martha only spoke about a hundredth of her musings, but Francis, -mindful of Frederic's recent behaviour and his plentiful lack of -character, decided for Plymouth, as being more accessible in case of -disaster. (He was surprised to find himself taking account of the -difference in expense of the two journeys, having always hitherto had -a lordly disregard of money.) - -It was settled; the dusty little man in Plymouth accepted Frederic as -an articled clerk, and, when he had received his premium, went into -the affairs of the family, and presented the horrible truth that such -inroads had been made upon capital that the income was reduced by -one-third from its original dimensions. - -Francis was so relieved at having disposed of Frederic that at first -he made light of it and said nothing to his wife. He supposed his -difficulties would solve themselves, and this to all appearances they -did. - -Willie Folyat, the possible heir afore-mentioned, an undergraduate at -Oxford, a very worthy and high-souled son of a pious and very poor -father, spent two long vacations at the St. Withans Vicarage. Gertrude -fell in love with him first, as by prescriptive right, and then, as -she seemed to make no progress, Mary considered herself free to lose -her heart. To their amazement and dismay, Willie sought an interview -with their father and proposed for the hand of the chit, Minna, not -yet out of short frocks. He was besottedly in love and prepared for -all sacrifices; however, he was refused on the score of Minna's youth, -but given to understand that in two years or three he might return -with every hope of success. Meanwhile there could be no objection to -his writing to Minna if he were discreet. - -He vowed eternal constancy with all youth's fervent and curious belief -in its possibility, and, by way of proving the breach of his heart, -accepted an appointment in a school in Bombay. Then by every mail he -addressed the most excellently turned love-letters to Minna, who -skimmed through them--being already engaged upon another conquest--and -handed them over to her mother, who wept over them, read them to -father, and saw herself as the beloved mother-in-law of the Earl of -Leedham--the title to which Willie had the remotest possible claim. - -All this was very exciting and disturbing, and it set the thoughts of -Gertrude and Mary in that direction from which there is no turning -back. Gertrude, then Mary, made a long stay in Plymouth, and they -returned with new costumes, new accents, new thoughts, and all their -talk was of the superiority of town-life over the country. They spent -a great deal of money, and the problem of income and expenditure -occupied their father's mind to the exclusion of everything else. In -Plymouth Gertrude and Mary had met the most delightful young man, a -friend of Frederic's, named Herbert Fry. On their entreaty he was -invited to stay for a holiday. He came and saw and was conquered--by -Minna. He was caught kissing her in the shrubbery, his stay came to an -end, and the name given him by the nurse--"a reg'lar Apollyon, my -dear"--was found to be appropriate. Minna was furious, and in a gust -of spite wrote a most offensive letter to Willie Folyat in Bombay. She -told her mother what she had done and robbed her of her most cherished -dream. She was found to be conducting a clandestine correspondence -with "Apollyon," and Martha let loose the thought which for some time -had been lurking at the back of her head, namely, that they must make -a change and, if possible, seek life in some city. She skirmished -about with it, never suspecting that much the same thought might be in -her husband's mind also, and she led him to it by easy stages. Really -the girls were getting beyond her; they had said things to her which -she would never have dared to say to her aunt when _she_ was a girl; -and the country certainly was dull for young people, and they had the -children to think of, and, of course, parents must make some -sacrifices. - -Francis looked at her with anxious eyes and muttered something about -his duty to his parishioners. He was popular with them, and he liked -the peace of the country and the simplicity (also the low cunning) of -country people. He liked the figure he cut, with his knee-breeches and -black shoes with silver buckles, and silk stockings and tall hat. He -had grown used to himself in a back-water and shrank from the prospect -of city life. Even Plymouth he found bewildering on his rare visits. -On the other hand, there was the perpetual leakage in his -finances--Frederic in no way to earn his living for at least four -years, and his daughters, like the horse-leech's, crying "Give! give!" -and no man apparently desirous of marrying them; and beyond them the -long tail of his family, all of whom might grow up and develop minds -which thought along lines different from his own. He was not in the -least resentful about it, that was not in his nature; but he hated his -own helplessness, the impossibility of doing anything to relieve the -growing strain. He loathed quarrelling, and his daughters were always -quarrelling with each other and their mother, and that, in a house -which should have been a model to the country-side, made him -profoundly ashamed. He had begun once more to think in an -extra-professional way, to see things in a humorous light which by all -tradition were sacred. A curious desire to tease had taken possession -of him, and he fought it with all his might. Further, if he was to -continue the war with circumstances in this place he must admit his -wife to his inmost thoughts. He tried, but his new failure was the -most bitter of all to bear; but yet he would not admit that she was -stupid. Still he clung to old memories, and he told himself that he -loved her. He did love her--he loved everything and everybody; but he -was not and had not been for many years in love with her. She had -never understood love, and she had bullied him. When he argued with -her she wept; when he agreed with her she wept also, and protested -that he was an angel and far, far too good for her. - -He came as directly to the point as she would let him, and one night, -after a protracted curtain lecture, he proposed that he should consult -his bishop and negotiate an exchange of livings with some clergyman -desirous of a country life. His only stipulation was that the new -parish should be among the poor, and this, unhappily, broke in upon -Martha's dreams of a brilliant social life among rich and more or less -"gentle" parishioners. She had mapped out marriages for all her -daughters and careers for all her sons, and was drowsing off into a -golden slumber when the word "poor" punched into her pillow. - -"My dear Frank!" she said. - -"I must work," said Francis. - -"But, my dear Frank, the poor!" - -"It is easier for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than for a -camel to pass through . . ." - -"I am not talking about that." - -"If I go to a town, I must go to the poor," said Francis, his old -ideals stirring in him. - -"But think of the girls." - -"I am thinking of the girls. I shall make them work among the poor. It -will do them good. It will keep their minds healthy and clear of -amorous thoughts." - -"How can you be so coarse?" - -This came with almost a scream, and Francis smothered what he was -going to add and turned over and pretended to be asleep. His wife went -on talking indignantly to herself. About five o'clock she woke him up -and told him that she had been dreaming of water, which she thought -meant riches, and also in her dream she had seen her son Leedham -crossing the sea, and Mary had made a great match of it with a tall -man who looked like a lord, but Minna had appeared very unhappy. - -"I do believe," Martha went on, "that in her heart of hearts Minna -really loves Willie Folyat." - -"Nonsense," replied Francis, "she is much too young to love anything -but herself." - -Martha was enraged at this, and harped on the string of her husband's -crazy notion of living among the poor. On that point he was immovable, -and Martha's light skirmishing was fruitless. Francis turned and -looked at her, told her that she wanted a clean night-cap, and went -off to sleep. - -They had many unhappy days, and it was some weeks before they found an -incumbent willing to exchange his living for the two in distant -Cornwall. This was the rector of St. Paul's Church, Bide Street, in -the darker half of our town on the north bank of the poisoned river, -about which we have no pride at all. - -Neither Francis nor any member of his family had ever been north of -Bristol, and the north of England was to them a place where -millionaires grew and factories ground out wealth and a set of ideas -associated with the name of Richard Cobden, a Liberal of whom no -Churchman could entirely approve. There was a bishop in our town, and -he was a person of some celebrity. Also there were two churches which -had a certain fame or notoriety for their extreme ritual. Welsh -Nonconformists teemed in the town, and the Roman Catholics had a -cathedral thirty years old. - -Francis visited the place and stayed there two days, during which it -rained except for half an hour just before he left. He refused to be -depressed by the slums in which his church was situated--a black, -stunted Gothic building with a ridiculous little steeple, and a sordid -school next door to it--and told himself that it was just what he -wanted. There was a fried-fish shop directly opposite the church, a -dirty greengrocer's shop next to that, and next again three -public-houses. Another row of little shops followed on the other side -of a bye-street, and for the rest, there were nothing but squat -terraces of blackened red-brick cottages, two stories high, with blue -slate roofs. In the street were an incredible number of children in -curious nondescript garments, and some of them in rags. Many of the -women wore clogs and all of them were sallow. The men were pale and -ill-nourished and they walked slouchingly. The street was muddy and -littered with refuse, and the air was thick and full of smells. - -Francis stayed with the rector and met the caretaker of the school and -church, the rector's and the people's wardens, and a few earnest men -who examined him with hard, curious eyes. They asked after his family -and how many children he had, and one of them whistled when he said he -had eight. Francis wanted to like them, but he felt a stranger amongst -them and could not be at his ease. They asked how he liked the church, -and he told them very well, and the rector's warden, Mr. Parsons, -said: "Ah! you should see it at 'Arvest Festival." - -Their speech sounded uncouth and harsh after the soft drawl of his -Cornish peasants, and it was this that Francis felt as the strongest -barrier between them. - -The living was worth three hundred and fifty pounds a year, and there -were pew-rents, which would bring the stipend up to within a hundred -pounds of the joint income of his two livings. Francis ignored that, -and calculated that as he would have only one curate, the exchange -would be equal, and no doubt his daughters would soon marry, and his -sons would quickly earn their living in this money-making town. He was -told that there were excellent schools for "them as could afford 'em," -and that settled the matter. Everything was as far as possible -arranged and he returned to St. Withans, tussling with himself during -the long journey and telling himself that he was not sorry to renounce -his old life, and that at last he was going to enter upon work, real -work. - -He had arranged to take on the former rector's old house in Fern -Square (there was not so much as a blade of grass growing in it), and -when Martha asked him about the town he concentrated on a description -of the house in one of the largest and most imposing terraces in the -district. - -It was arranged that Frederic should finish his articles in Plymouth; -and then, on a brilliant spring day, all the furniture, heirlooms, -family portraits, and the valuable china inherited at intervals by -Mrs. Folyat as her few aged relations one by one departed this life, -having gone before, the Folyats set out at seven o'clock in the -morning, and at half-past ten the same night reached our town where, -at last, their history becomes interesting. - - - -IV - -FERN SQUARE - -_Sir,--I pray you take heed how you put a beast, tired with the heat -of the sun and with long travel, among others, which, as I hear say, -have divers maladies and diseases._--A PETTY THEFT. - -HENCEFORTH we see Francis Folyat in trousers, and his broad-brimmed -silk hat, like a bishop's without cords, has been exchanged for the -soft round black felt which takes so many inches from a man's stature. -Black trousers, elastic-sided boots, a black silk waistcoat on which -hung an amethyst cross, a clerical frock-coat, and a round white-linen -collar were the daily attire of the new Rector of St. Paul's, Bide -Street. On great occasions the black-silk waistcoat was renounced in -favour of one of violet silk. All day on Sundays he wore his cassock -with a black silk sash round his full stomach, and when he walked to -church he wore a biretta, to the solemn awe of the street urchins, who -confounded him with the Greek _papa_, a strange figure that haunted -the children of the northern district of our town and was reputed to -be a wizard. - -Francis was in fine middle age. His head was beginning to be bald and -his golden beard was rapidly turning white. There were red veins on -his round cheeks, but his eyes were those of a boy, bright and blue -and merry, and when he laughed they used to close up into little slits -and all his bulk would shake until tears were squeezed out of them. He -had a great capacity for laughter, but always it seemed that he could -not shake it out. It possessed him and set him quivering like a jelly, -and there was nothing to be heard but a hoarse chuckle deep down in -his chest. - -There had been times of great difficulty in the beginning. Martha had -come to our town with glowing dreams, and when she saw Fern Square and -the house she was to live in they came tumbling down on her romantic -head, and she wept many tears and declared that she could not bear the -house or the people or the town, and she demanded to be taken away--to -Potsham, to Plymouth, anywhere out of the smoke and the rain and the -filth and the noise and away from the common, common people. She vowed -that she would never attend service in the hideous, squalid little -church, and could never have anything to do with the nasty, dirty -school. It was impossible. She could not let her children mix with the -children of these barbarians. They must find another living or give up -the Church altogether. Francis could retire, and devote himself to -theological literature. - -Francis bore it all with excellent good-humour, and pointed out that -he could not even write his own sermons (he had amassed a collection -of one hundred and fifty, which he delivered in rotation). By sheer -amiability he won his wife over to a more sweet and reasonable temper, -and helped her to set her house in order. - -When he came to tackle his work he found that his predecessor had been -a lazy and unpopular man and that his congregation was never more than -a hundred and twenty persons, while the Sunday-school was very -meagrely attended. He began by having the church and school cleaned -and decorated, and it was quickly noised abroad that the new rector -had private means. Further, it soon became clear that a new church was -to be added to the little ring of churches which upheld the High -Church cause in our town. After much cogitation Francis decided to -abolish the pew-rents and to open his church free to all and sundry. -He bought new surplices and cassocks for his choir, and new vestments -for the clergy and the acolytes whom he intended to appoint. Very soon -he found adherents and was given presents of new altar-cloths and -sacramental vessels. Altogether his prospects were admirably fair. - -Fern Square was a wedge-shaped piece of ground enclosed on one side by -six old red-brick houses four stories high, built in an imitation of -the Georgian style, with three rooms on each floor except the top, -which had four and an attic. The dining-room and the study were on the -ground floor, the drawing-room on the first. They were fine rooms, and -the Folyats' old furniture made a brave show in it. The house was lit -by gas, and the drawing-room window looked across the square upon the -deliberate ugliness of a Wesleyan chapel. The parrot had his cage in -the dining-room among the family portraits, and the dog lived where he -liked. He grew very fat and lost what little intelligence he had ever -had, so that it ceased to matter even to himself which was his head -and which was his tail. - -The Clibran-Bells from next door but one were the first to call. Mr. -Clibran-Bell was the borough treasurer, a man with a huge red beak of -a nose, a little white moustache, and a tremendous manner. He had an -unfailing source of pride in his wife, who was really beautiful and -had frequently been likened to the Marquise in _Caste_, a play which -his daughters were always performing in the cause of charity. Mrs. -Folyat flourished the Folyats and the Bampfields at Mrs. Clibran-Bell, -who countered with the Staffordshire Bentleys, her cousins. The -Clibran-Bells all talked mincingly, as though they had eaten olives -and could find no polite method of getting rid of the stones. Young -George Clibran-Bell was in the head office of the Thomson-Beaton Bank, -but, let it be added, the Clibran-Bells knew the manager. There were -four girls and young George, and they soon became on terms of great -intimacy with Gertrude and Mary Folyat, and they fell into the habit -of running in and out of each others' houses. - -The bishop's wife called. - -Very soon St. Paul's by its ritual attracted a number of -extra-parishioners who had previously had to go two or three miles to -the other end of our town for their religious satisfaction on a Sunday -morning. Francis was encouraged and worked very hard, found some -excellent people among his poor, and really tried to make his church a -centre for them and a source of help in their all-too-frequent times -of trouble. Mrs. Folyat, by dint of custom, overcame her dislike of -the common people with their coarse accent and rather uncouth manners, -and went so far in her compromise with native custom as to renounce -dinner in the evening and take to a heavy mid-day meal, a solid tea, -and a betwixt-and-between sort of supper about nine in the evening. On -Sunday she kept open house. Acquaintances and personages were fed at -half-past one, and the familiars of the house at nine, after evening -service. - -At first she kept three servants, but when one of them gave notice she -did not replace her and was content with two. Even that was found to -be over-expensive, and she came down to one and a charwoman, and then, -on Sunday evenings, Gertrude and Mary were forced to cook the supper -and to wash up the dinner afterwards. They were very disagreeable -about it until they found that most of the young women they knew, -including the Clibran-Bells, did far more housework and did it as a -matter of course. Then it became part of the routine of their -existence and they raised no further objection, but Sunday supper -became a cold feast, and they never cooked anything but potatoes and -perhaps a Welsh rarebit for their father, whom they called "Pa." - -Soon everybody, including the parrot, called Francis "Pa," and he -sunned himself in his new popularity and had no further misgivings as -to the wisdom of the step he had taken. Certainly he seemed to have -disposed of the strained relations that had existed in his family in -the country. The girls were busy and occupied all day long and every -day. The boys seemed to have many friends, desirable and otherwise. -Martha had taken to knitting and crochet-work, and she had Mrs. -Clibran-Bell and Mrs. Starkey, the solicitor's wife, and Mrs. Tuke, -the widow of the man who built the Albert Bridge and was killed on the -day it opened, all ready and pleased to listen to her tattle of her -husband's ancestry and her own property and her hopes for her -children. She had taken to lace caps and had settled down to a style -in dress and a general appearance which should last to the Judgment -Day. She read _The Family Herald_ every week, and every month -purchased the threepenny novel published by the same firm. She had and -was allowed a feeling of superiority, and enjoyed herself immensely. -When Francis came to her with misgivings as to their capacity to live -within their income she refused to listen to him, observed that they -knew all the best people in the place--and what more could they want? -Every Sunday they had a splendid congregation, and if the worse came -to the worst they could restore the pew-rents. Francis had a vague, -uneasy feeling that the worse had come to the worst, but nothing would -induce him to do that. He let the subject drop. - -Leedham had been sent to the grammar school, and James attended a -dame's school round the corner in the Bury Road. Annette at first -accompanied him, but her godmother had stepped in and sent her to a -school in Edinburgh. Minna, who all her life had done exactly what she -wanted, refused to be educated any more, put up her hair and let down -her frocks, and claimed equal rights with her two elder sisters. She -enjoyed their privileges and avoided their duties. - -After the family had been a year in Fern Square Frederic returned a -full-blown solicitor, and after a few weeks' idleness was taken into -the office of Mr. Starkey at a nominal salary. He had grown a little -moustache, which made the weakness of his chin even more pronounced, -and, for some reason best known to himself, he wore a monocle. In -Plymouth he had discovered a light tenor voice, and he became very -useful to the Clibran-Bells in their amateur theatricals. He joined -forces with young George, and together they indulged in all those -follies with which young men fortify their uneasy sense of manhood. He -had pale straw-coloured hair and a very pale complexion. He had a -ready wit and a quick tongue, and soon won a reputation for -cleverness. His brother Leedham hated him but always shrank away from -Frederic's irony. Leedham had a great respect and admiration for his -father, while Frederic regarded him with a contempt which originated, -perhaps, in the episode of his intoxication at St. Withans. Mrs. -Folyat doted on Frederic, and he never had the slightest difficulty in -obtaining money from her. He used to play the buffoon to her, set her -laughing until the tears ran, and then, with a sudden turn of -sentiment, he would make her cry until she laughed. When he could do -neither of these things he would shock her with an audacious jest. -Always he would contrive to keep her entertained. - -Francis, then, had no anxiety about his family. There was always -plenty of fun and merriment in his house, and a constant stream of -young people enjoying themselves as though the world had only just -come into being and was to go on for ever and ever. If the atmosphere -was not altogether pious, they were none the worse for that. They -attended church regularly, worked in the Sunday-school, and in many -other directions for the parish, and their happiness won the -confidence of the poor, who made surprising efforts to please the -rector and his family. Best of all, from Francis's point of view, -numbers of young men were attracted to the house and from there were -drawn off into various activities. Enthusiasm for the High Church -cause ran high. - -Our town is composed of a number of smaller towns and boroughs, all -now under one city council, but at that time many of the boroughs and -urban districts maintained their separate entities and had their own -councils and their own newspapers. The district in which St. Paul's -was situate was still a separate borough, and it had a newspaper -called _The Pendle Times and Lower Brighton Gazette_, which published -local news and copious police reports. The editor of this sheet was a -fanatical Low Churchman whose whole religious force had gone into -worship of a certain Calvinistic divine, the Reverend Humphrey Clay, a -rigid temperance reformer, Puritan and moralist, who, perceiving the -growing laxness of the new industrial population, flung himself with -fierce zeal into the task of castigating their immorality and whipping -them up into a state of religious fervour. He had pictured their -lives--ugly and stunted as they were in fact--as a gay rout of sin, -and he strove to counteract this peculiar fiction of his own mind by a -religion of appalling dulness. He had a commanding spirit and found -many disciples. He substituted the intoxication of conversion for that -of alcohol, and drew hundreds to the corrugated-iron church he had -built on a piece of waste land opposite a public-house and a theatre. -His sermons were printed week by week in _The Pendle News_--half a -page of fierce exhortation, while the other half was filled with -racing results and advertisements of rat-pits and coursing. When he -died twenty thousand men and women followed him to the grim cemetery -overlooking the canal, and the streets were lined for two miles. In -his obituary, Flynn, the editor, called him "the Sainted Humphrey -Clay," and the name stuck. A movement was set on foot to replace his -iron church with a stone building to be called the "Humphrey Clay -Memorial Church"--none of your old Romish saints was to give his name -to it--and a house-to-house canvas was instituted. The factory hands -gave their pence, the better class their shillings and pounds, and -after many years of unceasing work the fund was completed. The -building was erected and consecrated by the bishop just six months -after Francis Folyat came to St. Paul's. - -Flynn, the editor, scented the presence of the enemy, and began the -attack by the publication of the "Literary Remains of Humphrey Clay," -containing stern denunciations of Popish mummery and mediæval -witchcraft. The wildest stories flew, and very soon Francis was -credited with worshipping the Virgin Mary and maintaining a secret -shrine in his vestry. Flynn wrote two denunciatory articles, blindly -prejudiced and pitifully ignorant. Francis read them and wrote to the -editor to invite him to attend service in St. Paul's and see for -himself. - -Flynn waited for some weeks until Easter Sunday, when he fully -expected to see a statue of the Virgin carried round the church. There -was, in fact, a procession, and there was incense which stank in the -editor's nostrils. His first impression as he entered had been one of -disgust, for the whole place was filled with flowers, in the windows, -on the pulpit, on the altar, twined about the lectern--daffodils and -tulips and hyacinths and violets and lilies. He sat in his pew at the -back of the church and saw men and women enter, cross themselves, and -curtsey and bow to the East in the central aisle, and his gorge rose -at it all. When the organ began to boom and send music whirring up to -the roof and flooding the nave and the chancel, and a young man in a -purple cassock and a lace surplice appeared bearing the Cross, and -behind him two censer-bearers, and behind them again the choir, the -curate, the special preacher, and Francis Folyat, in robe, cope and -stole, carrying his biretta, he was fain to scream out upon the -blasphemy of it all--blasphemy upon the memory of Humphrey Clay. He -watched the procession wind round the church, singing the gladdest of -Easter hymns, and move up into the chancel, where the choir, still -singing in their harsh, untrained voices, filed into their places, and -the three priests stood solemnly upon the altar steps and waited for -the last notes of the organ to die away. Two acolytes appeared in -purple cassocks and little lace surplices and stood below the priests, -and the solemn service began. - -Flynn rushed away and walked for miles until he was dog-weary. He took -his class in Sunday-school in the afternoon in a sort of dream, and in -the evening with wide-staring eyes he sat unheedingly through the -sombre evening service in the Humphrey Clay Memorial. He saw the whole -town, the whole world, imperilled. He saw in Francis an emissary of -the great whore of Babylon that sitteth upon many waters, a man bent -upon seducing souls from salvation, the very devil quoting Scripture -to his ends. - -Flynn's sensations were those of a pious young man who for the first -time in his life enters a music-hall, with this difference, that for -Flynn the abhorred thing had no charm nor peril for himself, only for -others--those others whom his hero's life had been given to save. - -On the Easter Monday his wife discovered that their charwoman had -decamped with a sheet and two blankets, and he laid that sin at the -door of the new source of corruption he had discovered, called for -strong tea, wrapped a wet towel round his aching head, and wrote the -first of his famous series of articles. The following is an abstract -under the heading: - - "_Non Angli sed Romani: - The Enemy within our Gates._ - -There is a church in this town, for so long devoted under the -leadership of our great and sainted Humphrey Clay, a church where -Sunday after Sunday, and on week-days also, blasphemy is committed, -blasphemy and a painted mummery. I have been to this church. With my -own eyes I have seen the finger-marks of the painted, scented hand of -Rome. In this church I saw three priests--_priests_, not -_ministers_--clothed like actors in a theatre. They wore purple and -fine linen and they carried funny little hats in their hands. They had -decked up two young laymen in purple and silk and fine embroidery, and -their feet trod upon rich carpets, with gleaming brass stair-rods. The -very air was thick and oppressive with the smell of flowers, and to -this was added the fulsome stench of incense, carried by conceited, -mincing little boys. No pen, least of all mine, could describe the -impiousness of the processions, the bowings, the scrapings, the -befouling and vulgarisation of things sacred that happen in this -church, this so-called church, which is in reality a booth, a theatre. -Why, the very costumes are indecent. The choir-boys do not wear -surplices, but little laced shirts or shifts which do not even cover -their spinal bulbs. Their behaviour, their demeanour, is an affront to -all truly religious-minded persons. Had I not remembered that I was in -the House of God I should have spat in the face of the arch-mummer as -he passed me and bade him begone to Babylon whence he came. Who is -this man? Why should he be suffered to defile the religion which he is -supposed to practise? Why should this play-actor be permitted to strut -and mow and paw the air in the Holy of Holies? Three times at least I -saw him change his costume--in public! And each time he was assisted -with a mock solemnity by the valet whom he is pleased to call an -acolyte. They say this man is a gentleman, the kinsman of a noble -family, a rich man, one who has kept his carriage. Let him not play -the priest. Humphrey Clay, of blessed memory, was the son of a -carpenter, a working carpenter in this town, but before his Maker he -was a gentleman indeed. It is but twelve months since our bishop -consecrated the memorial which is the crowning edifice that pinnacles -the glorious career of Humphrey Clay. Can that same bishop within his -diocese tolerate the splendid memorial to the one and the impious -practices of the other man? I say he cannot. Such churches as this -have not hitherto been tolerated in our part of the town. Citizens, -shall we endure it now? - -_N.B._--Further articles on the subject will appear until something is -done. If those in authority will not move, we shall take the matter -into our own hands." - -Francis read this effusion and was hurt by it. Since he had thumped -his brother William on the nose he had quarrelled with no man and -deliberately hurt none. Behind the wild writing he could feel the -torment, and he was sorry. He felt that he was to a certain extent to -blame because he had invited the man to his church in a challenging -spirit, and so had perhaps increased prejudice in him. He tried to -write to Flynn but could find nothing to say. As he sifted his -thoughts he could only discover that he wished his church to be free. -All sorts and conditions of men were free to come and free to stay -away. He had once found one of his sidesmen turning a ragged old -beggar-woman out, and had reproved him and led the old woman to a pew. -She spat on the floor and sat fingering an old clay-pipe, but, to -Francis's way of thinking, these things might not be unacceptable to -the God he honoured, however distasteful they might be to human -creatures. The church, then, was free, and Francis desired only to -make it pleasing and attractive to those who came to it, to have it a -place of beauty amid so much ugliness. The Saturday before Easter had -been one of the happiest he ever remembered--a day of hard work in the -church, surrounded with young people all gay and blithe and busy with -the flowers and draperies and vestments. One such day, he felt, could -do much to redeem the waste and folly of years. - -However, it was all odious and disgusting to Flynn, and Francis sighed -as he reached out for his tin of bird's-eye and filled his pipe. The -parrot scrambled out of its cage, shuffled along the floor and climbed -up the back of his chair, perched on his shoulders, and stood combing -its beak through his beard. - - - -V - -HOSTILITIES - -_Thou liftest me up above those that rise up against me; thou hast -delivered me from the violent man._ - PSALM xviii. 48. - -THE dead play a not altogether disproportionate part in the affairs of -the living. There are so many more of them. The thought would be -desperate but for the reflection that in all probability the most -numerous of all are the unborn. The Creator may at any moment get -tired of the eternal monotonous repetition of birth and death, but no -man or woman will ever believe that. We get joy out of it, and His is -the sum of all our joy--the dead, the living, and the unborn. - -Humphrey Clay, for all the grimness of his words and works, must have -been a joyous man, for his spirit was very powerful and roused many -men to action. True, their actions were all ugly, but that came from -their stupidity and the squalor of their surroundings. There is no -country on the north of our town for thirty miles--only smoked bricks -and mortar and tall chimneys and colliery stacks. On the south you -must go seven miles before you will find a truly green field, and most -of us are quite old before we can make such a pilgrimage, and then -clear air and trees and streams and sky and the song of birds are -things as separate from our lives as our dreams. They are almost a -show to us. Our great holiday is Whitsun-week, and then each church -takes its children in wagonettes and char-à-bancs out into the nearest -semblance of green country, where they wander and play and laugh and -squabble and are fed until they can hardly stand. It is called a -"treat," and it gives them a new zest for the streets and their -adventurous, strangely independent life. - -The Roman Catholic churches organise processions which meet in the -centre of the town and wind through the streets, the little girls in -white and the little boys in the best they can muster. - -In his fourth article Flynn exhorted Francis to be an honest man and -take his flock to join them. In the meanwhile there had been appeals -to the bishop, who refused to move in the matter, being convinced, -from what he had seen, that there was nothing uncanonical in the -conduct of the services at St. Paul's. He liked Francis, and if he -could not altogether approve of the means, the result was eminently -satisfactory. As a result of Flynn's campaign there was hardly ever a -seat to be had in St. Paul's on Sundays, and some of the most noted -preachers in our town and the surrounding district were glad to appear -in the pulpit. - -Flynn's paper was doing very well out of it. All sorts of people -rushed into the fray and filled his columns for nothing, and when his -supporters took to interrupting the services at St. Paul's with -vehement protests the other papers took the matter up, and Francis -found a sort of greatness thrust upon him. He refused to see -reporters, and told one persistent Scotsman that it was Flynn's -affair, not his, and that he had no intention of moving against Flynn. -He received many letters denouncing him as Anti-Christ, and many more -proclaiming him the one Spiritual Hope of the North of England. More -than one of his correspondents enclosed poems. - -Martha was all in a flutter, and was quite sure that Francis was on -the point of being made a bishop. He was invited to preach to the -judges when they came on assize, and she had no doubt that that would -be the first step. Francis had no such illusions. He was not ambitious -for promotion. He took out Sermon No. 112 and delivered it with the -full consciousness that it was profoundly dull. Flynn came to hear it, -took shorthand notes, and printed an abstract without comment. - -This official recognition provoked exasperation, and on the following -Sunday as Francis was walking in cassock and biretta to his church he -was accosted by a gloomy-faced individual with a sandy complexion, who -called him a "spawn of Rome," and when Francis smiled at the -grotesqueness of the expression he stooped down and picked up a -handful of dung and flung it in his face. Francis went on his way amid -the hoots of little boys and the jeering of women. - -A few days later the windows of his house were broken and the voice of -Flynn in _The Pendle News_ rose to a triumphant scream. Two policemen -were mounted on guard in Fern Square, and the attentions of the -malcontents were transferred to the school in Bide Street. The -railings were torn down and the furniture of the doors wrenched away. -Roughs and hooligans joined in, and one Sunday all the doors of the -church were found to be screwed up, and the congregation stood in the -street, while from the church steps Francis read the service and -delivered the first extempore sermon of his life. He was trembling -with emotion and his voice cracked, and hardly a soul could hear him, -and he broke down altogether when the people sang - - _Rock of Ages, cleft for me, - Let me hide myself in thee. . . ._ - -A few days later the authorities made the mistake of arresting Flynn -on a charge of inciting to violence. The prosecution failed, but Flynn -had the satisfaction and the bitterness of martyrdom, and he returned -to the assault with new frenzy. - -Meanwhile at home there had been a new development. Leedham, the third -son, the one stolid member of the family, had upset his mother by -announcing his intention of leaving school and our town and going out -to the Brazils. He had made the acquaintance of a family who had -connections out there, and he had been fired by their descriptions of -Rio de Janeiro. His real reason was a heartfelt desire to get away -from Frederic, but of that he said nothing. He observed, with much -justice, that he was not doing any good at school and would probably -learn no more if he stayed there another two years. (The school was -conducted on the principle of forcing the bright boys and leaving the -dull ones to pick up what they could.) Further, he argued that if he -had to earn his own living, the sooner he began the better. Through -his friends, he said, he could obtain a post in a bank in Rio, and he -would rather be in a bank there than in our town. - -Francis was inclined to approve, but Martha wept. Like so many -mothers, she had no notion of her real relation with her children, and -lived in a fantasy in which she was the perfect mother who adored and -was adored by them. More than once to Mrs. Clibran-Bell she had said: - -"There is nothing that my children do that they do not tell me." - -And Mrs. Clibran-Bell, being of much the same type, believed her, and -together they glowed with rapture over this miracle of domesticity. - -Leedham had very little imagination or capacity of invention, and, -like his father, had rather a disconcerting way of accepting the facts -of his existence for better, for worse. He knew that he was unhappy at -home, felt that he was going to be a great deal more unhappy, and saw -nothing but the necessity of getting away. - -"Darling Leedham," said his mother, "how can you think of entering -upon vulgar commerce!" - -"What else am I to do?" - -"But think of your name! A Folyat in a bank!--a clerk! And with your -Christian name too!" - -(The Earldom of Leedham was the title which Minna missed sharing when -she jilted Willie Folyat.) - -"George Clibran-Bell is in a bank," said Leedham. - -"But, darling, how can you leave your mother? How can you think of -it?" - -"People have to leave their mothers sooner or later." - -"But you love your mother?" - -"Of course," said Leedham sturdily, "but I want to go." - -"You cannot go without your father's consent." - -"No." - -"Very well, then." - -And that seemed to end the interview. - -Leedham saw his father first and came straight to the point. - -"I want to go to the Brazils." - -"I know. Your mother is very much upset by it." - -"That's not the point." - -Francis agreed. - -"The point is, what am I going to be if I stay?" - -"You might be a clergyman or--or----" - -"I don't want to be a clergyman." - -"A doctor, then?" - -"Can you afford it?" - -"No," said Francis, and the admission brought his opposition tumbling -down. They discussed ways and means, and Francis delighted in his -boy's practical good sense and independence, though he had a feeling -of pity and shame that he had not come to know him better before. - -"Thank you, sir," said Leedham. "And please, will you ask mother not -to cry over me?" - -"You can't expect her not to feel it." - -"No, I suppose not. But I want her to be glad too." - -"Well," said Francis, "I'm glad and I'm proud of you. I wish----" - -The thought of Frederic came to him and he said no more. - -Mrs. Folyat cried in public at every possible opportunity, and she -came in for a great deal of sympathy. Frederic, who had always used -Leedham as a butt, and thoroughly disliked the idea of losing him, did -his best to make him feel a callous brute. But Leedham was excited and -exalted at the prospect of adventure, though he had no one on his side -but his father and the boy James, who gazed at him with large envious -eyes and promoted him to heroic rank. - -During his last few weeks Leedham spent many hours in the study with -his father, and they had long friendly talks all about nothing, in -which they skirmished round the new affection that had sprung up -between them. - -On his last Sunday night there was a farewell supper. Mabel and Jessie -Clibran-Bell were there and Gertrude and Mary and Minna. Frederic was -out, and the boy James had been in bed all day with a cold caught in -crawling along the roof in his night-gown from his attic-window to the -attic of the boy next door. He had been thrashed for doing it--but -when the boy next door had laid in a feast of sardines and raspberry -jam the temptation was too great, and he scrambled over in the pouring -rain, sat for two hours in his wet night-gown and then slept in it. - -With Frederic away Leedham could talk, and he bragged of how he would -return in ten years and buy a carriage for his mother and re-build his -father's church and set James up in life and bring jewels for Minna. -(He was fond of Minna.) - -"But suppose you marry?" said Mary. - -"Not I," said Leedham. - -"I expect," remarked Francis, with a chuckle, "he'll marry a -Portuguese." - -"Frank! How can you!" protested Martha. "The Portuguese are -Catholics!" - -"Perhaps she'll be rich," threw in Minna. - -"And beautiful, with dark languishing eyes," added Mabel Clibran-Bell. -And in a few minutes they had created the future Mrs. Leedham and, -rather maliciously, endowed her with a furious temper. - -Leedham took all the chaff in good part and made himself especially -amiable to his mother. - -Mary went upstairs with some supper for James and the talk turned on -Flynn, and everybody wondered what he would do next. - -"I hate that Flynn," said Martha. - -"Oh, come!" replied Francis, "he's filled the church. I couldn't have -done it without him." - -"But it is horrid," said Mabel Clibran-Bell. - -"Certainly; but Flynn is getting what he wants and I am getting what I -want. Both his people and my people are more enthusiastic than they -would be otherwise." - -"Father says," put in Jessie Clibran-Bell, "that he is getting -libellous." - -"Let him," returned Francis. - -"Wouldn't you proceed against him?" - -"Not I. I don't think the clergy should squabble even in the Law -Courts." - -"But," said Martha, "it would be a case for Frederic." - -Mary returned saying that James was not in his room and nowhere in the -house. She had called through the window to the boy next door, but -there was such a terrific wind her voice was blown away. There were -two chimney-pots blown down in the square. - -Mrs. Folyat went white and her lips trembled. They all looked from one -to the other. Leedham left the room and they heard the front-door -bang, and the wind moaned in the chimney. - -Francis rose to his feet and moved towards the door. Mary ran upstairs -again, and Gertrude put the parrot's cloth over his cage because he -was beginning to scream. Came a ring at the door, and presently -Leedham appeared with his hair blown into his eyes and his face very -pale and his teeth chattering. He turned to his father and said: - -"Come!" - -Mrs. Folyat fainted. - -Francis turned sick at heart and went out into the passage. The front -door was open and the gas was flickering in the wind, so that it was -very dark. There were two men holding a little white bundle between -them. - -The boy James had been blown from the roof and they had found him on -the pavement below. He was quite cold, and it was impossible to tell -how long he had been there. - -The house was full of whisperings and the guests withdrew, stealing -away like ghosts. Leedham stayed to look after his mother. They -carried the boy upstairs and laid his poor broken body on the bed in -Mary's room, and Francis fumbled out and along the street to beg the -doctor to come at once. There was nothing to be done. Thinking was no -use. Tears seemed foolish. It was only mechanically that Francis -turned to his God and said, "Thy Will be done." - -The boy was buried in the grim cemetery over by the canal. The -parishioners clubbed together and erected a little marble cross above -his grave. They wanted to express their sympathy, and the very poor -sent pathetic little wreaths of ivy and hideous wax monstrosities and -horrible crosses of iron filagree. The beauty and charm of the boy -were discovered after he was dead, and for a little while the house in -Fern Square was a sort of temple in his honour. His belongings were -gathered together and partitioned, and Leedham took with him to Rio de -Janeiro his little brother's christening mug and spoon. - -Mrs. Folyat was prostrate with grief, and the shock to her nerves made -her for a long time a valetudinarian. She was just recovering when -there came the crowning act of brutality. - -Flynn was silenced for a space, but it was strangely whispered among -his followers that in St. Paul's mass was being said and candles lit -for the dead. - -Francis had encouraged the more devout among his parishioners to use -the church for private meditation and prayer. He himself, in his -grief, spent many hours there, and this found interpretation in the -report that he was instituting the confessional. Flynn did not stop to -examine the accuracy or probability of the rumour but hurled -thunderbolts. A gang of roughs set on Frederic one day, and he came -home with his clothes torn and mucked and his face bloody. Urged by -his wife, and much against his own inclination, Francis wrote to Flynn -and begged him to confine his attentions to himself. He said: - -"I am a priest, but I am proud, and if there is to be suffering as the -consequence of my actions I would rather bear it on my own shoulders." - -Henceforth Francis was known as the Proud Priest. - -One of the most fanatical of Flynn's followers discovered that the boy -James was buried not twenty yards away from the angel-guarded tomb of -Humphrey Clay, and this, when bruited, fell like a spark upon the dry -minds of the most ignorant members of the faction. On a dark evening -in November they went up to the cemetery, overturned the little marble -cross, effaced the name James Matthew Folyat, and scattered the -wreaths and flowers. - -Mrs. Folyat took to her bed. The ringleaders were discovered and -arrested, and Francis appeared in court, very pale, obviously near -breaking-point, and in a very low voice said that he did not wish to -prosecute. There was a wave of sympathy for the unfortunate rector of -St. Paul's. Flynn's paper was boycotted of advertisements and he fell -into low water. He had ruined himself in the struggle and he had -almost drained Francis of courage and faith in human-kind. He clung -obstinately to his work, but was dogged by a sense of the futility of -it all and, in his worst moments, saw it only as a mechanical -sanctification of birth, marriage, and death. Humanity seemed so -primitive--just a base struggle for existence and satisfaction in -existence, and silly devastating squabbles about forms. He realised -dreadfully what a gulf lay between himself and his wife, and he strove -desperately to bridge it, only to discover that she was unconscious of -any disparity and had a diabolical skill in coating any uncomfortable -fact with a romantic fiction so that it became as a pearl upon her -shell. He blamed himself for it, and was kind to her and fought -against the exasperation which her prattle aroused in him. Having no -friend to whom he could turn--all the men he knew deferred to his -cloth and treated him as a creature apart--he tried to find sympathy -and interest in his daughters and Frederic, his remaining son. They -were absorbed in their youth and their dreams and folly, and seemed to -be afraid of him. He watched them, but soon found that he was spying -upon them. The one thing he had to love was the memory of the boy -James, who became ever more radiant to him, and he used to watch the -goings out and comings in of the boy next door and think him a -splendid fellow, and regret all that he had missed when his own boy -was alive. - -For many, many days life seemed to stand still. There was dull -routine, Sunday succeeded Sunday. Gradually gaiety crept once more -into the house in Fern Square, but it seemed to Francis so remote--as -remote as the woman upstairs, who complained and complained and yet -could babble of fashion and the weather and money and the young men -who came courting her daughters. - - - -VI - -FREDERIC'S FRIENDS - -_By my troth, Cony, if there were a thousand boys, thou would'st spoil -them all with taking their parts._ - THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE. - -AT the age of twenty-four Frederic was earning twenty-five shillings a -week as a managing clerk in Mr. Starkey's office in Hanging Row. He -was fairly punctual in the morning, having hired Minna to rout him out -of bed at eight o'clock, and he would lounge through the morning until -one o'clock when he would disappear for two hours for lunch and coffee -and dominoes in a smoky cellar called the Mecca Café. In the afternoon -he would work furiously from three to five so as to have something to -show for his day, and in the evening he would come to life. A sort of -swagger would come into his bearing and a pinkish tinge would come -into his pale cheeks and a new light into his blue-green eyes. He had -discovered that in winter his light tenor voice could be made to earn -about thirty shillings a week, and together with a spotty-faced youth -in his office who sang comic songs (with patter) he went up and down -our town and district giving "I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby" and "To -Anthea" and "There is a Lady Passing By," and winning much applause -which invariably went to his head and made him very drunk. He sang -under an assumed name, and no one at home knew what he was doing -except Minna, whom he bribed with cigarettes to hold her peace. (She -used to lock herself in the bath-room and smoke them out of the -window.) When occasionally his mother complained that he was never at -home in the evening he used to say that he was rehearsing. At -intervals he used to take part in private theatricals with the -spotty-faced youth or other of his friends. The pieces generally given -were the farces of Madison Morton, or _The Blind Beggars_, or some -amateur musical play. There was a Gentlemen's Musical Society which -had a little hall in Oswald Street in the centre of our town. Frederic -and the spotty-faced youth were members, though the Society had fallen -on evil days and its entertainments had become rather broad. For the -most part they were smoking-concerts, not unlike the Caves of Harmony -that used to be in London, but the air was purified occasionally by a -Ladies' Night, when the lions roared as gently as any sucking dove, -and gave innocuous theatrical entertainments to which the members -brought their daughters. Frederic became a shining light in the -performances, and the members' daughters fell in love with him and -wrote him ridiculous letters of admiration, which he gulped down -without blinking. - -It was at the Gentlemen's Concert Hall that he first met James Lawrie, -the dramatic critic of our weekly newspaper who wrote under the name -of "Snug," and had some public reputation as a writer of elegant -poetry, and an immense fame among journalists and actors and -theatrical musicians and painters as a composer of bawdy verses. This -man was a Scotsman, a hard drinker, and he was said to know every -verse that Robert Burns ever wrote by heart, and also to have many -poems that had never been printed. He used to write notices of the -little performances in the Gentlemen's Concert Hall, and, as he could -be very scathing, the actors used to fawn upon him and flatter him. -The spotty-faced youth introduced him to Frederic one night, and the -old man--he was not above fifty-five, but he had always been Old -Lawrie--shook him warmly by the hand and said: - -"I'm proud to meet your father's son, sir." - -That rather staggered Frederic, to whom it had never occurred that his -father might be admirable. Old Lawrie saw that he was a little taken -aback and he scowled and went on: - -"Come, come! Not ashamed of your father, are you, heh? My sons are, -but then my sons are respectable. That's what's the matter with them, -they're respectable and safe. Safe's a good word for a gag. You can -bring your lips together on it hard." - -"I was at school in France," replied Frederic with a flush of timidity -under his paint. He had just come from the dress-rehearsal on the -stage, the play being _Still Waters Run Deep_. - -"If you like France," said Old Lawrie, "you won't like this cursed -hole. You'll die in it. I've never been to France myself, but I've -read their books. They pull everything to bits with their brains. -Nothing left. They're a better lot than we are. Got no morals, but who -has? We pretend to have 'em. They don't. Know your Burns? It's in -print, so I see no reason why I shouldn't speak it: - - _O Lord! yestreen, Thou ken, wi' Meg-- - Thy pardon I sincerely beg, - O may it ne'er be a livin' plague - To my dishonour, - An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg - Again upon her. - Maybe Thou lets the fleshly thorn - Beset thy servant e'en and morn, - Lest he owre high and proud should turn - 'Cause he's sae gifted: - If sae, Thy hand maun e'en be borne, - Until Thou lift it. - But, Lord, remember me and mine - Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine - That I for fear and grace may shine - Excell'd by nane, - An' a' the glory shall be Thine, - Amen, Amen._ - -Old Lawrie was a fine man as he declaimed the verses. His eyes flashed -and his voice came big from his chest, and when he had done he turned -to Frederic and said: - -"That's Burns, and out of Shakespeare there isna a healthier spirit in -the world. Burns and Shakespeare--both of 'em poor men and straight -from the earth, and 'll give ye all the cultured dandies in the world -for a farthing gift. So you're playing at play-acting, young man? -That's what nine-tenths the world is for ever doing in its daily life. -They ca' me a disgusting old man, but they should hear what I ca' them -when my tongue's loosed and my mind's eyes seeing visions. I live in -Hell, but I've a Heaven in my brain. . . . Your father's a good man to -go his own way with the dirty Lutherans and the filthy Puritans -yelping at his heels. You'll not be going in for the professional -play-acting?" - -"No," said Frederic. "I sing." - -Old Lawrie clapped his old silk hat on his head, took his blackthorn -stick in his hand and gave a shout of laughter. He patted Frederic on -the shoulder, pursed his lips and hummed through them strangely and -vaguely as though he were turning over a morsel of music on his -tongue, and then he broke into verse and said: - - _O youth it is a pretty thing, - A wild rose in the bud. - But it must die with the passing Spring - All trampled in the mud. - We've heavy feet in our town, - Rough shod with iron bands. - Virginity goes toppling down - Befouled with loutish hands. - O Spring is smoked in our town, - And life's a dirty scrum, - The angels weep to see God's frown - And we make Hell to hum._ - -He turned away after this impromptu and joined a bibulous-looking -individual with white hair and an enormous face, Joshua Yeo, his -editor, and the nearest approach to a friend that he had. - -Frederic turned to the spotty-faced youth and found him grinning -vacantly. - -"Quite balmy," said the spotty-faced youth. - -"I think he's splendid," returned Frederic, amazed at his own -enthusiasm. - -"Wants a new coat," said the spotty-faced youth. "He's worn that ever -since I've known him, and it's green with age. He gets fighting -roaring blind once a month, and his sons lock him up. I know one of -them--Bennett Lawrie--a bee-yooti-ful young man, High-Church and all -that. May have been to your governor's show. The old man's a -Presbyterian as much as he's anything. He used to be in a bank, same -bank that Randolph Caldecott used to be in. But he quarrelled, -quarrels with every one." - -"Do you think he made that up--about youth and our town?" - -"Comes easy to him. When he's drunk he talks blank verse. He was run -in once, and he harangued the beak like Mark Antony at Cæsar's -funeral." - -They were called back to the stage, and Frederic found that he was not -nearly so pleased with himself in his part as he had been. He began to -think the play foolish and shoddy. - -After the rehearsal he had an appointment with the spotty-faced youth -to meet two girls on Kersley Moors, a high, dark, treeless common just -outside the northern suburbs. From Kersley the road ran into the town -past the bishop's palace, and here nightly young men and maidens -foregathered and stalked each other and exchanged mysterious -greetings, sometimes stopping and talking, sometimes passing and -disappearing down the dark lanes that enclosed the bishop's huge -garden. The spotty-faced youth, who had been impressed by Frederic's -braggadocio of the things that were much better done in France, had -introduced him to this exchange and mart of foolish emotions and -transitory affections. They went there in search of pleasure and -adventure, and they generally found them, though more puny and debased -than they were prepared to admit. They went there now only half -believing that the girls with whom they had made their assignation -would turn up, for they had seemed so superior to the usual quarry. -They did not know their names or where they lived. It was enough for -them that both the girls were pretty and responsive to such wit as -they could produce. - -The spotty-faced youth's father was a doctor, and he had three -brothers, and on the way he regaled Frederic with tales of their -escapades and the narrow squeaks they had had, and the great score it -was to have a father who was a man of the world and understood these -things. He became so foul-mouthed that Frederic stopped him. - -"If you don't shut up I shall go home." - -"Right ho!" said the spotty-faced youth. "Only I did think you had a -better sense of fun. You didn't seem to mind Old Lawrie talking about -Burns and Meg." - -"That's different. That's poetry." - -"Is it?" - -"Yes. Like 'Lucrece' and 'Venus and Adonis.'" - -"Well. They're pretty hot." - -"Oh! Shut up." - -Frederic did not rightly understand why he was so indignant with his -companion. He was conscious of a difference between the two -things--frank acceptance and fumbling--but he could not put his finger -on it, nor could he discover why for the first time in years of folly -he should feel a sense of shame. It grew on him as they walked up the -Kersley Road and, by the second lamp-post past the bishop's gate, saw -the two young women arm-in-arm pacing slowly in front of them. - -"Bags I the tall one?" said the spotty-faced youth. - -Before Frederic could reply they had come up with the girls and his -companion had greeted them with a tag from the pantomime of the last -winter. - -"We thought you wouldn't come," said the tall girl. - -"No fear," said the spotty-faced youth. "Trust me when I've spotted a -winner." - -Frederic set the pace and they walked briskly up the road to Kersley -Church. He hardly said a word, but his companion kept up a running -fire of facetious chatter. At the church the tall girl and Haslam -(that was the spotty-faced youth's name) walked on and disappeared -into the darkness of the moors after arranging to meet again at ten. -Frederic was left under the lamp-post with the other girl. She was -very little and slight, and she was rather poorly dressed. She looked -shyly up at Frederic, and he said: - -"You're very pretty." - -"I like you better than the other one." - -"You see," said Frederic, "I was at school in France." - -"Oh! France. Are they very wicked in France?" - -"It depends what you mean by wicked. No more than they are here." - -"I suppose you won't tell me your name." - -"I don't mind," said Frederic, with a sudden flow of honesty. He had -so often been Snooks and Jones and Walker. "It's Folyat. Fred Folyat." - -"Mine's Lipsett, Annie Lipsett. It's a silly name." - -It seemed such a silly name to Frederic that he could find nothing to -say, and there came a dead silence between them. She was offended at -last and moved away and he had almost lost sight of her in the -darkness of the moor when he ran and caught her up. They passed -through the posts that filled the entrance to the moor, and Frederic -put his arm round her hard little waist. She stopped. He stopped and -kissed her and they walked on. - -There were lovers (and worse) everywhere, and as they crept slowly -forward they heard sighs and silly giggles and voices murmuring. It -was very dark and the clouds hung low and the wind was a little cold. -They found a place to sit where through trees they could see the -lights of the houses. Frederic sat a little away from her and with his -cane prodded into the ground. - -"I wonder where the others are," said Annie Lipsett. - -"Does it matter?" - -"No." - -They were silent for a little, then Frederic remembered old Lawrie, -and he pursed up his lips as the old man had done and crooned a little -to himself. Then, suddenly, he asked: - -"Are you happy?" - -He did not wait for her to reply but went on: - -"I'm wondering why we mess about with it. What's the good of it, all? -Who are you? I don't know. Who am I? You don't know. We live in a -beastly dirty town and we wander about like lost souls. And because we -be lost souls we take anything that comes along--you me, I you. Is it -good enough? It's all wrong. But what's right? . . . It's fun, I -suppose. Fun! . . . But what else is there?" - -He took the girl's hand. - -"I tell you what. I'm damned sorry for you." - -"Of course," said Annie Lipsett. "Of course, you're a gentleman." - -And Frederic laughed. He told himself that he was an idiot, and that -all _that_ was not his affair. He had brought this girl here, just as -all the other young men in the place had brought all the other young -women, to forget, to escape for a little while, to lose all thought of -the beastliness of life down below in the town. It _was_ beastly. -Everything was so dirty, and everybody was so poor and so tired. . . . -He took the girl in his arms and held her very close and whispered -silly talk to her, and soon she was sighing and lying and nestling to -him. - -They were ten minutes late in their return to the lamp-post by the -church, and Haslam and the tall girl were very ill at ease and silent. -Annie Lipsett clung to Frederic's arm and they walked down to the -bishop's palace. There they parted. Frederic kissed her and she clung -to him. The tall girl led her away and they vanished into the night. - -As they turned their faces homewards Haslam said: - -"Gawd! I have had a rummy time. I couldn't touch her without her -starting on the crying game. Sha'n't see her again." - -"No. I suppose not," said Frederic. - -Haslam looked at him. - -"Well. You're a caution, you are!" - -"I'm a bit of a swine, the same as you," retorted Frederic. - - - -VII - -YOUNG WOMEN - -_Our own precedent passions do instruct us - What levity is in youth._ - TIMON OF ATHENS. - -YOUNG people must for ever be trying to fall in love, and in this -ancient sport young women are every bit as active as young men. For -the matter of that, the greater part of humanity remain adolescent in -this affair, that is, hemmed in by a thick-set hedge of prejudice and -unsatisfied emotion and convention and childish theory, so that they -are for ever in a state of uneasy curiosity about love, always ready -to put salt on its tail, but unable to come within reach of it. For -that reason they are always confusing love with being in love, an -active state of living which can be permanent with an emotional -condition which must be transitory. - -Mrs. Folyat had the most beautiful illusions about her household. She -was not entirely deceived by them when she came face to face with -herself, but in her relations with her husband, her friends and her -daughters she always exhibited the most profound faith in them. Though -her daughters were grown women she never troubled to discover the -state of their minds, but assumed their innocence and purity, and she -never referred back to her own state of mind at the same age and the -same maiden condition. In short, she burked the difficulty and the -responsibility, though she was secretly alarmed at their slowness in -finding husbands. She had no notion of their finding any career -outside marriage, and took no steps to prepare them even for that. - -There was a constant stream of young men passing through the house, -and they all seemed to do their best to fall in love with Gertrude and -Mary, but they either fell victims to Minna, who played with them and -squeezed their young hearts dry between her finger and thumb, or they -disappeared and were caught in the toils elsewhere. There were so many -young women and so few eligible young men. They flirted, they danced, -they paid visits to the theatres, and Gertrude sang and Mary played -her violin, but nothing happened. It was very annoying. The -Clibran-Bell girls did not marry either, but there was no comfort in -that. They had such large noses; and they were not Folyats. They had -not the charm of high gentility. . . . Neither Gertrude nor Mary was -pretty, but they could be amusing and they seemed to attract -attention. Minna was decidedly pretty, with a wide delightful grin and -a mocking humour. The most serious and solemn young men were devoted -to her. They were always proposing to her, but she always refused them -or became engaged to them for about a week. Her betrothals hardly ever -seemed to survive the visit to their families. She invariably seemed -to see them in caricature, and had amassed quite a large collection of -mental pictures of North-country families who received her at high tea -and welcomed her with shy effusiveness. - -Mrs. Folyat was fonder of Minna than of her other daughters. She was -easier to get on with and much less expensive. Mary and Gertrude had -acquired the habit of visiting relations in the South much richer than -themselves, and every year they demanded an exorbitant outlay on -clothes, and they came back rather scornful of life in Fern Square and -rather rebellious at having to resume their household duties or work -in the church and Sunday-school. Also, for a time, they would assume a -lofty tone with the young men of their acquaintance, and they used to -prick at Frederic and tell him he was becoming provincial. Minna used -to lash them with her tongue, dealing out the wickedest malice with -the most urbane good-humour, and deliberately annex any young men whom -they brought to the house. She called Gertrude "Mother Bub" and Mary -"Mottle-tooth." From their superiority in years they affected to -ignore her, but they lost no opportunity of annoying her and upsetting -her plans for her own comfort and enjoyment. - -The money-cloud had grown darker over Francis. It seemed impossible to -make his expenditure acknowledge even a bowing acquaintance with his -income. He had credit with the tradespeople but it was abused. Fifty -pounds had become a large sum of money to him, because the payment of -it meant dislocation of his finances. Frederic was always sending in -small bills that were too large for his slender earnings. The -girls--Mary and Gertrude were still called "the girls"--were always -wanting money. Annette in Edinburgh hardly ever wrote without wanting -money, and Mrs. Folyat seemed to have no notion of the decreasing -elasticity of his resources. It was perfectly clear to him that a -change must be made, and quickly. He went into his accounts, found -that he owed three hundred and fifty pounds--nearly a year's -stipend--and wrote the figures down on a scrap of paper and laid it -before his wife. - -"We owe that," he said. "It's a lot of money." - -Mrs. Folyat turned the piece of paper round and round in her fingers, -and Francis stood above her pulling at his beard. - -"It's a big sum," he said. - -Mrs. Folyat pulled out her handkerchief and began to whimper, as she -always did when Francis was masterful. - -"I'm sure," she said, "I'm sure it's not my fault. I'm sure I wish -we'd never come to this hateful pace. I don't know why we did." - -Francis felt a gust of exasperation. - -"We came here," he said, "to marry the girls. They're not married." - -Mrs. Folyat saw reproach in what was only a statement of fact, and she -protested with some vehemence. The failure of her daughters hurt her. -She felt it as keenly as Sarah, the wife of Abraham, felt her -barrenness, for she saw life altogether in terms of marriage, romantic -marriage. Her own life had fallen into the lines laid down by the -fiction with which she refreshed herself--as a girl she had dreamed of -a romantic lover--he had come--a parson, a creature of noble -birth--and she had married him. She had borne him a truly biblical -number of children and looked for them to follow a similar destiny. -She had regarded it as a thing that happened automatically, for she -was in mind a child, and life was to her a toy presented to her by a -beneficent Creator, already wound up and prepared to go indefinitely. -When apparently it ran down she could do nothing but weep and make -things as uncomfortable as possible for those nearest her. She hated -facts, and Francis, her husband, had the most odious habit of plumping -them down in front of her. - -Always before when they had been presented with any financial -difficulty they had sold a house at Potsham, for the reduction of -their private income by twenty or thirty pounds had seemed no great -matter. But they had already sold five houses, and the loss of one -hundred and fifty pounds a year had, as Francis now pointed out, -played a considerable part in bringing them to their present quandary. -He was loth to sacrifice another house and more income, and nervously -proposed that they should raise the required sum by selling some of -their valuable china and perhaps a piece or two of Martha's jewellery. -She hardly ever wore her jewellery, but she loved to hoard it, and -whenever she was particularly pleased with her women friends she used -to reward them by displaying the contents of her treasure-drawers, -jewels, old lace, silks and brocades and fans, acquired and -inherited--things valuable and trumpery all lying higgledy-piggledy. - -Her husband's suggestion acted like salt rubbed into the wounds -occasioned by his statement of fact. She asked why she should always -be the sufferer for the delinquencies of her family, and almost -persuaded herself that she was their scapegoat. She went back over the -years and raked over the ashes of old resentments and grievances, even -going so far as to disinter the sacrifice of her carriage at St. -Withans. - -"The fact remains," said Francis, "that we owe a large sum of money. I -am a clergyman, and my house should be free of the sordid troubles -that beset the laity. It is not free of them and I am ashamed." - -"Very well, then," said Martha, "Let us sell everything, spend -everything--the girls will do that easily enough--and then go into the -workhouse." - -"Please be reasonable," rejoined Francis. "We must pay our debts and -reduce our expenditure. If necessary, the girls must go out and earn -what they can." - -"The girls!" - -"There is no shame in honest work, whatever it may be." - -"But they will _never_ marry if they work." - -"Half the women I marry are working women." - -"I won't discuss it. You have never been the same since we came to -this hateful place." - -"I was thinking chiefly of Mary. She could teach music. And Annette -has had a better education than the others. She could . . ." - -"What?" - -"She could obtain a situation as a governess." - -"A governess! Annette! A governess!" - -In Mrs. Folyat's eyes to send your daughter out as a governess was a -confession of poverty. There could be no glossing it over. Of course -the clergy were miserably paid, but Francis had always risen superior -to that reproach in public opinion by the general belief in the -amplitude of his private means. It could be little short of disaster -then to confess to inadequacy. And a governess! Poor Annette! though -to be sure when she was a child her godmother had looked at her sadly -and observed that she must assuredly be prepared for a convent. She -was so plain--a remark which Minna had never ceased to brandish over -poor Annette's head whenever their wills clashed. . . . - -Francis at length cut short his wife's protestations with a sigh and -said: - -"My dear, I'm sorry. That's the position. We have to swallow it. We -can't give the girls the opportunities they ought to have. We must let -them fight their own way. At present anything is better than the sort -of life they are leading. We'll sell another house, but that shall be -the last. We'll make a fresh start. Be patient with me, my dear." - -"And am _I_ to tell Mary?" - -"No. I'll do that, and I'll find a family for Annette." - -Francis went away feeling that there was a great deal to be said for -the celibacy of the clergy. Other men, of course, did not see so much -of their families, and perhaps, for that reason, could understand them -better, be better friends with them, and not so acutely conscious of -their irritating peculiarities. The relation between a father and -daughter should be a very beautiful thing, and indeed there were -moments when the house in Fern Square was a place of happiness and -affectionate unity. Only--only, there was the future. Martha growing -more and more helpless, and the household duties and responsibilities -devolving more and more upon Gertrude and Mary, and they losing their -bloom. - -Francis had a vague feeling of injustice which was harshly in -disaccord with his professional teaching of acceptance--"Whatever is, -is right" and "It's all for the best." At any rate there was still -abundant laughter in his house, and that was better than the grim -smile which was all these Northerners would for the most part allow -themselves. The days of violent opposition were gone, but the Puritans -still looked askance at the Proud Priest--for the nickname clung--and -his family. The grocer with an off-licence round the corner spread -tales of the large quantities of beer that were consumed in the -parson's house. - -Mary took the suggestion very well, and soon she had five pupils, -little boys and girls, whom she taught to fumble on the piano and to -extract horrible noises from the violin. She went to their houses and -enjoyed making new friends. Annette was brought home from Edinburgh at -the end of the term and was found a situation with an ironmaster's -family named Fender. She had one pupil, a little hunchbacked girl who -alternately adored her and bullied her. Annette was very happy. At -home she had been so mercilessly teased by Minna that she was glad to -get away. The Fenders lived in Burnley, ten miles away, and in summer -they moved to a lovely house they had in Westmoreland, high-perched on -a hill looking down on Grasmere and Rydal. She read enormous -quantities of novels, and devoured the pounds and pounds of sweets and -chocolates that were lavished on her pupil. Once a week she wrote -dutiful letters to her parents and surreptitiously she began to write -a novel in the manner of Mr. James Payn. She wrote three chapters, and -then found the labour of writing too exhausting and continued the -story mentally in her many idle moments. - -At home in Fern Square the conduct of Gertrude had been causing some -astonishment and alarm. For five consecutive Sundays she failed to put -in an appearance at morning service, and once she neglected her -Sunday-school class. When questioned about it--she was a woman in -years, but Mrs. Folyat was not the mother to relax her authority until -it was wrested from her--she replied that she was making a tour of the -High Churches in our town--with a friend. The answer was found -satisfactory, but Minna looked into the facts and found that her elder -sister had spent every one of those five Sundays in St. Saviour's, -where there was a young acolyte who had a beautiful profile and -soulful eyes. He wore the most exquisite garments, and his expression -was as near monkish as anything you can find in the Church of England. -His face was lean and pale, and his whole bearing was mournful in the -extreme. - -For two Sundays after the inquisition Gertrude went to service in St. -Paul's. On the third she disappeared again, and Minna pleaded -headache, watched the others go off with their prayer-books and Sunday -clothes, and then hurried to St. Saviour's, a little church built on a -slag-heap above the Jewish quarter. She crept in just before eleven -and found Gertrude sitting far up near the steps of the nave gazing in -rapt and religious devotion at the young acolyte as with almost -theatrical solemnity he performed his rites. If he was conscious of -her he gave no sign. With an almost yearning intensity he crept -noiselessly about ministering to the priest. Gertrude's great moment -came after the sermon when, the churchwardens and sidesmen moving -lugubriously from pew to pew, the acolyte came down to the altar steps -and stood with a large brass plate in his hands waiting for the -offertory. He stood there proudly with his pale face upturned, his -whole soul seeming to be borne aloft on the hymn sung by the -congregation. On this occasion it was: - - _O God our help in ages past, - Our hope for years to come; - Our shelter from the stormy blast, - And our eternal home._ - -Minna had come in a mischievous spirit, but even she was impressed. -There was a soulfulness in the young man, the look of one hopelessly -atoning for all the sins of the world, and, above all, there was -artistry in his movements. Everything that he did seemed to be -immensely important and pregnant with meaning. When he stooped and the -churchwardens and sidesmen laid their little bags in the great brass -plate, he did it with the air of one accepting a worthless gift for -the grace of the giving. To him at least it did seem to be true that -it is more blessed to give than to receive. His humility was so great, -so moving, that Minna wished she had put sixpence into the bag instead -of a penny. - -She could not see Gertrude's face, but she was familiar enough with -her back to be able to gauge her feelings. Gertrude had rather a poor -figure, with high shoulders and a very short waist. Now her shoulders -were higher than ever, and she was leaning forward and her elbows were -trembling ever so slightly. Minna smiled and thought maliciously of -all she knew about Gertrude, and that was not a little. - -Before the service was over she left the church, and was lying in the -study with a wet handkerchief over her head and a volume of Tennyson -on her knees when the rest of the family came home from St. Paul's and -Gertrude from St. Saviour's. - -"Where did you go to, my dear?" asked Mrs. Folyat. - -"Oh! To St. Benedict's," replied Gertrude. "They have the most lovely -altar-cloth I ever saw. But the curate intones very badly." - -"As badly as pa?" asked Minna. - -"That's impossible," said Francis with a long chuckle. - -There was some chatter, circulation of gossip got at the church door, -and then with some anxiety Mrs. Folyat looked across the long table at -her husband and said: - -"Are you going to tell them, Frank?" - -Francis had his mouth full and could only say "Hum! Ha!" - -"What is it?" Frederic turned a little pale and wondered what was -coming. His misdeeds, taken collectively, were very trivial, but he -knew from experience that any one of them taken singly, robbed of its -context and placed under the scrutiny of other eyes, would assume -gigantic proportions. - -"Have all the Folkestone Folyats died and left us all their money? Or -has uncle William come back from India with a gigantic fortune?" Minna -was rushing wildly ahead on all the strangest possibilities when -Francis finished his mouthful and cleared his throat. - -"No," he said. "I have heard from your brother Serge." - -"Serge!" said Mary. - -"Serge!" said Gertrude, snatched from her tender dreams. - -"Is he rich?" asked Minna. - -"I don't know. He talks of coming home." - -"Where is he?" This came from Frederic. - -"He wrote from Durban in South Africa." - -"Oh! Then of course he's a millionaire. Hurrah! He'll buy Frederic a -partnership, and me a husband--catch me marrying a poor man--and Mary -a genuine Strad, and Gertie a--an acolyte." - -Gertrude flushed hotly and looked daggers across the table. - -"He merely writes that he is coming home, as though he had only been -away a week." - -"Some of you children can hardly remember him," said Martha. - -Minna said she could just recollect his putting her into a bassinette -and letting her go flying down a hill into a pond. - -Francis went on: - -"He sent your mother some water-colour drawings." - -"Any good?" asked Frederic. - -"I think they're quite good. But I don't know anything about these -things." - -"I'll take them to old Lawrie. He'll know," said Frederic. - -"Lawrie?" murmured Gertrude. - -"Yes. D'you know him?" - -"No. No." - -Minna winked at Frederic. He had often talked to her about old Lawrie, -and she had discovered that the name of the young acolyte at St. -Saviour's was Bennett Lawrie, old James' third son. - -"I say," said Frederic, "does Serge know we're here?" - -"No. The letter was forwarded from St. Withans." - -"Don't you think you ought to let him know what he's in for?" - -"I can't do that. He gave no address." - -"It won't matter to him if he's rich," said Minna, and they all fell -to and rummaged their memories for recollections of Serge as a boy. -Minna invented lavishly and suddenly she shouted: - -"Did he say whether he'd got a wife?" - -"I bet it's a blackamoor like old Nicholas Folyat," said Frederic. - -"Even if she is black," said Mrs. Folyat solemnly, "if he is married -to her she will be my daughter-in-law and I shall receive her." - -The conversation took on a broad complexion which is more permissible -in the family circle than in the printed page. - -That evening Frederic took Serge's drawings with him and sought out -old Lawrie in the Arts Club, where always on a Sunday evening there -was a gathering of old warriors and choice spirits--Joshua Yeo, Elihu -Beecroft, the painter, Peter Maitland, who wrote pantomimes, and -Warlock Clynes, the photographer, and B. J. Strutt, the manager of the -old theatre, where, as a young man, Henry Irving had been a member of -the stock company. They were smoking and drinking and yarning. They -had vast stores of anecdotes of the great Bohemians in London. -Beecroft had twice had pictures in the Academy, and B. J. Strutt had -begun life as a call-boy at the Haymarket Theatre. Old James Lawrie -had been to London three times and had shaken hands with J. L. Toole -and Helen Faucit, and Clement Scott had sent him a copy of his -Ballads, of which he had produced many gross parodies. - -The club was simply three rooms in a dark block of offices--a bar, an -eating room, and a smoke-room. Frederic was shown in by the grubby boy -whom he found at the door reading a penny "blood," and he stood -foolishly in the middle of the room realising dreadfully that old -Lawrie did not remember who he was. - -"Mr. Lawrie. . ." he said. - -"Eh?" - -"I--I--My name's Folyat. I--I acted. You asked me to--to look you up -here some day." - -"Eh? Oh, yes. Come and sit down. What'll you have? I can't pay for -your drink, but some one will." - -Frederic sat down, and the little group of old men were embarrassed by -his presence. - -"So. . . so you act, do you? Here's B. J. Strutt. Get him to give you -a job in his next pantomime." - -"I'm--I'm not a pro," said Frederic. "I'm a solicitor." And, as he -said it, he felt that it was a small thing to be among these free men -who practised the arts. Frederic was a chameleon who took his colour -from his surroundings. He had a queer capacity for enthusiasm, which -came and went and was altogether beyond his control. He drank a little -whiskey and he felt that he was in the company of very wonderful -beings. They talked of things and men that were glorious dreams to -him, and they spoke of them with such ease and familiarity, like -giants playing marbles with the mountains. His own little celebrity, -which had been very dear to him, dwindled into nothing, and it was to -protect himself that he produced Serge's drawings and began to talk of -his brother. - -Beecroft took the drawings and looked them through. He had a huge red -beard and a glistening bald head and round spectacles that made him -look like a benevolent spider. He clapped his hands to his bald pink -head and with immense fervour said: - -"By God!" - -"Are they good?" rasped Lawrie. - -"No. Damn bad." - -Frederic felt very small. - -"I don't know," said B. J. Strutt. "I like that one all yellow in the -foreground and blue in the distance. And I like that one with the -niggers filing through the orange-trees with the pinky-white house -beyond." - -"So do I," cried Beecroft. "I like 'em all. The man can't draw, but he -can feel colour and big distances and lots and lots of air." - -Frederic began to feel better. The old men gathered round the drawings -and gave grunts of satisfaction. (They had been very bored all the -evening and were glad of something to interest them). - -"Where is he?" said Beecroft. "This brother of yours." - -"In Africa. He's coming home." - -"He's a genius. Do you know that? A genius." - -"Be careful, Beecroft," put in Lawrie. "There have been about twenty -men of genius--real genius--in forty, or is it sixty?--thousand -years." - -"A genius," reiterated Beecroft. "We'll give a show. You can ram him -down their throats week by week, Yeo." - -"It's no good running a genius in this place," growled Lawrie.--He was -always discovering poets and seeing them go to ruin.--"They don't want -genius. They're so used to imitations." - -"At any rate," protested Beecroft, "they haven't had anything like -this for years, and I don't think we ought to let 'em off." - -"My brother's coming home now. I'll tell him what you said. It's -rather funny. I haven't seen him since we were boys, and then he was -much older than I." - -"We'll have a show," repeated Beecroft. "He's a local man?" - -"We weren't born here. But my father's been rector of St. Paul's, Bide -Street, for some years now." - -"That's good enough. The stinking rotters here like to think they've -had a hand in anything produced in the place--if people talk about it -enough. Have some more whiskey?" - -Frederic was beyond saying "no." The drink went to his head, inflated -him, and he offered to sing. Strutt played his accompaniments, and -they kept him at it for an hour until he was hoarse, and they shouted -the choruses in cracked, beery voices. - -It was very late when Frederic left the club, after shaking hands all -round and promising tearfully to bring his brother, the genius, as -soon as he arrived. He forgot the drawings altogether, and old Lawrie, -being the soberest of the party, gathered them together and took them -home with him. - - - -VIII - -SERGE - -_It's a queer place, and indeed I don't know the place that isn't._ - THE ARAN ISLANDS. - -SERGE FOLYAT landed at Plymouth on a wet autumn day and walked to St. -Withans rejoicing and declaring in his heart that England was the most -beautiful country in the world. He saw no reason to alter his opinion -as he walked north until he came to the outcrop of industrialism in -the plain of Cheshire. - -It took him ten days to walk from St. Withans to our town, and six of -them were wet. He loved the soft English rain and the rich green of -the countryside and the glorious gold and red of the sodden autumn -leaves, and when, for the first time, he saw the black and grey of -South Lancashire skies and the dark chimneys rising out of the dense -mass of buildings he could be glad of them too. All the same he -wondered what strange whimsey could have taken his father out of the -soft Southern air into such menacing harshness. However, it did not -greatly exercise his mind. He had never troubled to find reasons for -his own follies and accepted those of others with as good a grace. - -He was a man a little above middle height, tanned and brown, with -bright blue eyes like his father's, and a close clipped golden-brown -beard, turning grey at the corners of the jawbones. He loved talking, -and engaged all whom he met or caught up on the road, and nearly -always left them more cheerful than when he encountered them. When he -was alone he talked or sang to himself in a very loud voice. He was -not looking for adventure and met with none. His clothes he carried in -a sack on his back, and he had a great stick in his hand, a pocketful -of tobacco, and a calabash pipe. Other possessions he had none. He -walked very fast and sometimes covered forty miles in a day. - -In the evening of the tenth day he entered the town by the Derby Road -and followed his nose and the tramlines until he came to St. Thomas' -Church. There he asked for Fern Square and received no response. He -stopped a dismal-looking man and asked him. The stranger gaped at him -and said: - -"A'm a stranger 'ere, my sen." - -His next enquiry provoked a long answer in a language so uncouth that -he could make nothing of it. He followed the tram-lines again and -wandered vaguely until he came to a cross-road from which he could see -the Collegiate Church standing velvety-black against a sooty sky, with -a railway bridge and the dome of a station beyond. He saw a tram -labelled Pendle and followed it. The road led him under the railway -bridge, past a sequestered market and a sort of fair with booths and -swing-boats and a cocoa-nut shy and a merry-go-round. He stopped and -watched the dirty mournful-looking people taking their pleasure, and -the sight rather depressed him. A little farther on he had to pass -through the places in which these people lived, and under the -factories where they worked. He liked the hum and business of it all, -and he liked the slatternly grubby little shops. - -There is a place where the road skirts a height, and from the road a -public park stretches down to the oily-black river winding through -flats. Beyond the river gleam the reservoirs of the mills, steaming -under the humid air. Beyond them again are hills covered with houses, -and away to right and left a forest of tall chimneys. Over all hangs a -pall of mist and smoke, a railing edges the road, and here Serge stood -and gazed at the queer degraded beauty of it all. There was hardly a -blade of grass in the park, none at all on the flats by the river. -Trees and plants were stunted. Down in the park, on the benches, -sauntering down the paths, hiding behind the bushes, he could see -lovers, and that comforted him. - -He moved on singing to himself and swinging his stick, and presently -he came to a wide place over against a washing-machine factory. The -road here was finely broad, but it was flanked on either side by mean -little houses and forlorn little shops. It made the slow ascent of a -long hill, and although there was plenty of traffic--trams, cabs, -drays, lorries--it looked empty and desolate. There was not a tree in -sight. - -Serge stopped a man with a sandy moustache and a complexion like a -suet-pudding and asked his direction to Fern Square. - -"I'll take you there," said the man. "What number?" - -"Five," answered Serge. - -"Mr. Folyat's." Serge nodded. - -"He's a good man is Mr. Folyat, and that kind to the poor, and they -don't need to go to his church neither. Him and the Roman priest, -Father Soledano, they does a lot of good, and there's a deal of good -needs doing, there is. He gave me a job when I come out o' prison." - -"Oh! You've been in prison?" - -"A month ago, I come out." - -"What for?" - -"'Spicious character. The p'leece put a jemmy in my carpenter's bag -and found it there. Mr. Folyat 'e spoke for my repu-character, but you -can't say nothing agin the p'leece. There it was, and I 'ad to do my -six months. Here we are. You look like a sea-faring man." - -"Good-night," said Serge. - -"Good-night." And the man shambled off. - -Serge stood gazing at the door and then he turned and looked over the -square at the Wesleyan Chapel. A factory hooter buzzed. From the -inside of the house came the wailing of a violin. - -Serge knocked at the door Minna opened it and stood peering out at -him. - -"Hullo!" said Serge. "Which are you? Mary?" - -"My father isn't in," replied Minna. - -"All the better. You don't remember me, and I've been thinking of you -as a baby. I'm Serge." - -"Serge!" - -He stepped in. Minna rushed away, and he heard her calling all over -the house: - -"Serge has come! Serge has come!" - -There was a pattering of feet on the stairs, a banging of doors, and -presently Gertrude, Mary, Mrs. Folyat and Minna came down upon him. He -caught his mother up in a great hug and squeezed the breath out of -her, and she stood talking and crying while he kissed Gertrude and -Mary on the cheek and Minna full on the lips. - -Mrs. Folyat led the way to the dining-room, and he sat at the table -and they round him, and they devoured him with their eyes. He looked -from one to the other. He thought that Gertrude looked sly, Mary -plain, but he liked the mischief in Minna's eyes, and she had a wide -friendly grin and a dimple in her cheek. His mother was so much older -than he had imagined her and he wanted to tease her out of it. She was -wearing a white woollen shawl, and she had shoved her spectacles up on -to her forehead when Minna broke in upon her reading. The room was -dark and rather oppressive and none of the windows were open. - -Minna lit the gas and pulled down the blinds. - -"Well!" said Mrs. Folyat, "you _have_ taken us by surprise." - -"I meant to," replied Serge. "I went to St. Withans first. I didn't -know you'd gone. I walked on here." - -"Walked!" This came from Mary. - -"Yes. It's a nice cheerful hole you've come to live in." - -"Horrible!" said Minna. - -"Dreadful!" capped Mrs. Folyat. "But your father would come. He said -his place was among the poor." - -Gertrude and Mary exchanged glances, but said nothing. Serge noticed -it and tried another topic. - -"How's all the children? How many are there?" - -"Oh! My dear." Mrs. Folyat felt for her handkerchief. - -Minna answered for her. - -"Annette's away. She's a governess with some rich vulgar people. James -is dead. He fell from the roof. Frederic is out. He always is. We're -in. We always are. And that's the lot." - -"What about Leedham?" - -"I forgot Leedham. He's in Rio, in a bank. Are you rich, Serge?" - -Serge felt in his trousers pocket and produced four sovereigns, three -shillings and ten coppers. He laid them out neatly on the red baize -table-cloth. - -"That's all," he said. - -Minna laughed and counted out the money. Gertrude and Mary and his -mother looked at Serge in dismay. - -"I don't know," said Serge. "If this place isn't full of money, -there's no excuse for it." - -"It's a queer place," said Minna, "and not so much money in it as all -that. What you've got would be wealth to most of father's people." - -"Your father," put in Mrs. Folyat, "said his place was among the poor. -I'm sure he got what he wanted." - -Serge felt that she was fishing for his opinion. He gave it. - -"I met a man," he said, "who brought me to the door. He said my father -was very good to the poor. He was a wretched devil who had just been -let out of prison." - -"Sam Dimsdale. That's his name." Minna heaped Serge's money up into -little piles. - -"How's Frederic?" asked Serge. - -"Frederic's a solicitor," replied Mrs. Folyat with a little show of -pride. - -Conversation flagged until Mrs. Folyat asked Gertrude and Mary to get -the supper, and then Serge insisted on helping and asked if he might -cook an omelette. Mrs. Folyat bade him stay with her. - -He sat opposite her and she fixed her spectacles and looked long at -him. Then she said: - -"You're like your father, but there's a look in you too of my mother. -What are you going to do?" - -"Do? I don't know. I've spent all my life trying things and leaving -them before they left me." - -"It was a terrible blow to us, your leaving the Navy like that." - -"Was it? It's so long ago now, but I was rather surprised at it -myself. I was sick of the water and pretending to defend England's -shores when nobody seemed to want to attack them." - -"But you were only a boy." - -"I sometimes think I shall never be anything else. I can't stand the -things men do. They waste such a lot of time over them." - -"But you must work." - -"I suppose so. But I shall have to ask you to feed me for a little." - -"Oh! your father won't say no to you. He never says no to any one." - -"There's consistency in that." - -"Your father is not the man he was. We have had terrible times, my -dear. Too dreadful. The people in this town." - -"Why don't the girls get married?" asked Serge. - -"My dear," answered his mother, "there are so few men whom one would -like to see them marry." - -Mary and Gertrude returned, and just then Francis came in. Serge went -up to him and kissed him, and Francis said "God bless my soul." When -he realised who it was he shook his son warmly by the hand and went on -saying: "I'm glad to see you, glad to see you, glad to see you." And -he chuckled inside him and made Serge sit down, and stood looking at -him, taking him in, and went on: - -"Something like a prodigal son, eh, Martha? Only the queer thing is -that I feel it is I who ought to say 'I am no more worthy to be called -thy father!'" - -Martha protested, and they sat down to supper. - -Francis sat absolutely silent at the head of the table and Martha -prattled and told Serge all the family news, all the deaths, and all -the contents of all the wills, especially those by which neither she -nor Francis had benefited, and how Willie Folyat had won his case and -become Earl of Leedham, and how Minna had been practically engaged to -him once and might have been a countess but for her folly. - -"I couldn't have borne Willie for a husband. He was so mushy," said -Minna. - -"You might have left him and got a handsome settlement," suggested -Serge. - -"Oh, no! The title carries very little money." - -"Left him! Serge!" Mrs. Folyat apostrophised him. - -Minna winked at Serge and said: - -"You're not married, I suppose?" - -"No." - -They ate cold ham and pickles and Gruyère cheese and captains' -biscuits. Francis drank toast and water and Serge disposed of two -bottles of beer. He looked round at the family portraits and drank -their healths. - -"I wonder," he said, "how they like seeing us here?" - -"I often sit with them," replied Francis, breaking his silence, "and I -fancy they are snobs and like being in a place where they can feel -themselves immeasurably superior." - -"Some of them," remarked Mrs. Folyat, "are worth at least a hundred -pounds." - -"I found myself rather liking this place as I walked here," said -Serge. "But I found myself wondering what happens to all the -suppressed vitality of the people in it. How many people are there? -There must be half a million. What do they all do? Their work can't be -very satisfying. Do they produce children at an appalling rate? Or is -there any artistic outlet? There can't be, or it wouldn't be so ugly. -I suppose there's a lot of crime and a lot of mess. I must have a look -at it. Do they have frightful diseases, and isn't it rather a mockery -spreading the Gospel of Christ in such a place?" - -"Serge!" Mrs. Folyat was unable to follow what he said, but she was -hurt at the mention of one whom she had always regarded as her Saviour -at the supper-table. - -"Have I shocked you, mother? I'm sorry," said Serge. "You're all so -different from what I have been thinking you for years and years and I -find it difficult to say anything. You're not exactly full of news -about yourselves, and my thoughts ran away with me. That's bad." - -"You haven't become an infidel I hope." Mrs. Folyat was rather -querulous. "You went to church in Africa?" - -"I was lay reader to the Bishop of Bloemfontein for six months." - -"Ah!" - -That reassured Mrs. Folyat, and she turned to her food again. She -enjoyed eating, and took very small mouthfuls and nibbled at them in a -most genteel fashion. Francis on the other hand ate hurriedly in large -gulps and had always finished his plateful before everybody else. -Serge suddenly found their methods of eating intensely interesting. He -too loved eating--he had revelled in English cooking after his years -in Africa--and it was pleasant to find that he had something in common -with his father and mother, though, instinctively, he knew that he -must not talk about it. - -Francis rose from the table and took up pipe and tobacco. Serge -produced his calabash and filled it. - -"You don't smoke cigarettes?" asked Francis. - -"No." - -"Frederic does. Beastly habit." - -Mary and Minna cleared away the things from the table and Gertrude -disappeared upstairs. Francis sat by the fireplace and said nothing. -Mrs. Folyat remained in her chair at the end of the table and said -nothing either. Serge blew rings and clouds of smoke into the air and -stretched his legs. Outside it had begun to rain, and the water -gurgled in the gutters. - -"How long have you been here?" asked Serge. - -For a long time it seemed that he was to receive no answer, but then -Mrs. Folyat in a ventriloquial voice, without the smallest expression -in her face and without turning her head said to her husband: - -"How many years have we been here, Frank?" - -"A good many. Nine, ten--more." - -"It seems more than that." - -Again there was a silence, and Serge glared at the gas-jet until black -spots swam in front of his eyes. A gust of indignation swept through -him, and he brought his fist down on the table with a bang. - -"Look here!" he almost shouted, "this isn't good enough! Aren't you -glad to see me? I've come home to you after nearly twenty years, and -here you are as silent and gloom-stricken as though I'd risen and -confronted you from the grave. . . . Do you remember how I blubbered -when I left you at the rectory gate at St. Withans? A boy's grief is a -little thing, but it's kept you warm in my thoughts all these years. -. . ." - -He stopped. He saw that his mother was mopping at her eyes and her -hand was fumbling at the tablecloth, and she seemed very old and -pitiful to him then, and he knew that he must not hurt her. His father -seemed not to have heard him and went on sucking at his pipe, which he -smoked with great skill so that the blue smoke only came from the bowl -and his mouth at long intervals. He looked all beard and spectacles, -impersonal and unexpressive, sitting there by the fireplace, and yet -there was humour in his very bulk. Serge felt that he had made an -error in tactics, a blunder in manners. These people, his father and -mother, were not to be taken by assault. They had ramparts and -bulwarks against all comers, perhaps against each other, and their -inmost lives were not to be laid bare for the first clamorous -belligerent. He realised that his mother's tears were defensive -weapons--a shower of Greek fire and boiling pitch. They were very -effective, and they drove Serge back blistered and wounded, but also -they roused the devil of obstinacy in him and made him resolved to -stay in the queer dark house so full of shadows and to fight with all -his might against its oppressive atmosphere, and to win his way -through to the hearts of the old woman, his mother, and the bulky, -silent, bearded man, his father. - -He leaned forward and took his mother's hand and fondled it. He -squeezed it like a lover, and gave a funny little laugh deep down in -his chest. - -"I'm sorry," he said. - -She gave his hand a convulsive, sudden little pressure, and he began -to talk about himself and his adventures. How he had wandered in -America and worked his way across to Cape Town and gone up-country -hunting elephants; and how he had fought in the Zulu War and taught -Dutch girls English on a Boer farm, done anything and -everything--prospected for gold, diamonds; cheated and been cheated; -thrashed and been thrashed; and as he told the smoke came faster from -his father's bowl and pipe, and at last he told how he had taken to -painting pictures for a living, because he was starving in Kimberley, -and how he made enough money to pay his passage home, and came because -he wanted to see green England again and the people with whom he had -been happy as a boy. - -"Did you get the pictures I sent you?" - -"Oh, yes," said Francis. "I thought some of them very good." - -"I'm glad of that. I don't know much about it, but they said out there -the colour was fine. One or two were sent to London and a picture -swell there wrote to me about them." - -Mrs. Folyat said she thought she would like to finish her book before -she went to bed, gathered her shawl about her shoulders, told them not -to be late, gave Serge her cheek to kiss, and wandered from the room. -Serge opened the door and closed it after her. - -Francis laid down his pipe. He grunted once or twice and then leaned -forward in his chair and said: - -"I don't think I realised before that my children are grown men and -women. It makes a difference. One loses the right to interfere, if one -ever had any. What are you going to do?" - -"If possible I shall become a painter. If it's impossible--there are -plenty of other things to do." - -"And where will you live?" - -"Here. I've got four pounds and a few shillings and the clothes I -stand up in and my drawings." - -"I'm not a rich man." - -"You haven't paid out a penny for me since I was fifteen." - -"That's true." - -"Give me a couple of years' board and lodging and a hundred a year and -I'll pay you back every penny as soon as I can." - -"I can't give you a hundred a year." - -"How much has Frederic had?" - -"Frederic? A good deal. . . . More than I could afford. Your mother's -very fond of Frederic." - -"Shall I tell you what will happen if you don't take my offer? I shall -stay, and go on staying until you suddenly realise that I have been -here for years." - -"How do you know that?" asked Francis, a little uneasily. - -"The house is like that. I'm rather like that myself--sometimes. I -suppose it's in the blood. We get into false positions--we're -intelligent enough to know that they're false, but we're not strong -enough to break away. Isn't it so? It's called good-nature. Doesn't -everybody call you a good-natured man? They do me. A damned good sort -they call me--men I hate too--but it only means that I'm easy and -don't make situations painful by demanding a clear issue." - -"Isn't that what you're doing now?" - -"Only because we're both good-natured men and there won't be any issue -at all if I don't. I've come home. I'm interested. Things are going to -happen in the house, and I want to be in at the fun. I may be useful." - -"What sort of things?" - -"I don't know. Who does? What matters is that they should happen. -. . ." - -Francis began to chuckle, and Serge threw back his head and laughed, -though there was nothing particular to laugh at, and yet it was very -strange to him to be sitting opposite a man and trying to get at him -and salute his soul, and that man his father. Their conversation -seemed to him like two cogged wheels in a machine missing their clutch -and whizzing round separately. They went on talking, but finally -admitted the futility of it, exchanged tobacco and sat in silence, -enjoying it and each other. Francis found company in his eldest son, -and it was very pleasant just to sit and look at him, he was so strong -and clean and healthy. - -Frederic come in very late and found them sitting there and the room -full of smoke. Serge rose and took his thin nervous hand in his great -paw and said: - -"Hello! Frederic. I'm Serge." - -"How are you?" returned Frederic. "Going to stay long?" - -"About two years." - -"The devil you are. I've just been talking to some men about you. I -showed them your drawings. One man says you're a genius. What does it -feel like?" - -"Being a genius? I don't know. But I imagine it's like being an -ordinary person--only more so. You look rather washed out." - -"Oh! I've been working hard. I'm tired." - -"You're very late," said Francis. - -"Yes. I didn't think you'd be sitting up. All the women in bed? Where -are you to sleep?" - -"I don't know." - -"Where is he to sleep, pa?" - -"I don't know. I can't wake your mother up, and the girls will be -asleep." - -Serge laughed. - -"I don't see anything to laugh at," muttered Frederic. "I don't want -you in my bed." - -"I'll sleep on the sofa," said Serge. "I was laughing because it was -so like the Folyats." - -Francis took a book in his hand and rolled out of the room. Serge -removed his collar and covered his feet with his coat and lay down on -the sofa. Frederic stood tugging at his little golden-red moustache -and looked down at him. - -"Good-night," he muttered, and went away. - -"God!" said Serge. "What a weak chin he has." - - - -IX - -INTERIOR - -_Polyerges, on the contrary, already illustrates the lowering tendency -of slavery._ - ANTS, BEES AND WASPS. - -FREDERIC had omitted to make any mention of the fact that he had lost -his brother's drawings, and had brushed the thought of them aside. He -had a comfortable memory and a convenient conscience which never -worried about his lapses and misdemeanours until they were known or in -danger of being known to other people. Then he lived in dread of the -application of official morality and indulged in a perfect orgy of -self-torment, grinding himself between the upper and nether millstones -of his own laxity and the rigid codes with which his upbringing had -imbued him. He had had a qualm or two about Serge's drawings, but it -was not until his brother appeared on the scene that he began to think -their loss might be serious--that is, fraught with unpleasant -consequences to himself. He was essentially amiable. Disagreement hurt -him, and he would go to any lengths to avoid an unprofitable quarrel. -On the other hand if a squabble seemed to lead to immediate gain he -would rush at it head down. - -In the morning he was out and away while Serge was still in the -bathroom splashing and roaring at the top of his voice. He spent the -morning in his office writing letters to Beecroft and Strutt telling -them that his brother had come home with a stock of drawings better -even than those he had shown them, and letters from London men about -them. He had no clear purpose in doing this, but was filled with a -vague notion that if the first drawings were irreparably lost he was -making some amends. - -In the lunch interval he went round to the Arts Club and asked the -grubby boy if the drawings had been found. The grubby boy made an -effort of memory and said that he seemed to recollect Mr. Lawrie going -off with something under his arm that night. Yes; it was a big, square -thing, because he had put Mr. Lawrie into a cab and it fell on to the -floor, and he picked it up and laid it on Mr. Lawrie's knees. - -Frederic gave the boy a penny, got Mr. Lawrie's address, and, as soon -as he could get away in the evening went down to his house. It was one -of a terrace of four stucco houses with Gothic windows. It stood at -the corner, and a little bye-street led down one side of it to a slum. -It had a little raised lawn, two laurel trees and a privet hedge in -front of it, and a wide asphalt path led up to the front door, which -lay far back in a huge gloomy porch. The windows looked out on to -another row of stucco houses with a shop at the corner which for the -time being was a laundry. Opposite the laundry was a public-house. Two -streets met a few yards along the road, and in the cleft of them was a -large red-brick house with its garden gate gleaming with brass plates. -Here lived Dr. Haslam, the father of the spotty-faced youth. - -Frederic gave a long tug at the bell and stood looking stupidly at the -door, the lower panels of which were scratched and dented with heavy -kicks. A large tabby cat came and rubbed herself against his legs. - -Presently the latch was drawn and the door was opened about six -inches, and in the aperture there appeared a long bony face, -incredibly lined and wrinkled, and in it two burning-sorrowful eyes. -The mouth of this face opened, and out of it came a toneless mournful -voice saying: - -"What is it?" - -"Is Mr. Lawrie in?" asked Frederic. - -"He is. But he's busy. Are ye from the office? We'll be ready in ten -minutes." - -"I want to see Mr. Lawrie most particularly on a private matter." - -"Ye cannot see him." - -"I must." - -"What name?" - -"Folyat. Mr. Frederic Folyat." - -"I'll see." - -The door was closed to and Frederic, left with the cat, stood trying -to quiet the omen at his heart. A very pale young man came through the -gate and walked up the asphalt path and came into the porch. He looked -at Frederic shyly and stood as far away from him as possible. There -was an awkward moment until he said: - -"Have you rung?" - -"Yes." - -"She's a bit slow. She's got rheumatism in her feet. I know you, but -you don't know me. I've seen you at your father's church. My name's -Bennett Lawrie. I'm in business. It's beastly." - -"Do you often go to our church?" - -"I go to all the High Churches, when I can get away. I wanted to be a -clergyman, but I suppose I never shall be now." - -"You'd better come and see us. We have supper on Sundays for anybody -who likes to come." - -"I'd just love to know your father." - -"I want to see _your_ father." - -"Oh! _My_ father!" - -The boy shied away on that, and again the door was opened six inches. -Bennett pushed it open and disappeared into the dark house leaving -Frederic confronted with the gaunt personage who owned the haggard -face. - -"Will ye come with me now?" she said. - -Frederic followed her down a long gloomy passage and into a large -dining-room, where at the table, surrounded with papers, sat James -Lawrie, cursing, smoking, and writing full tilt. He had a huge cup of -strong coffee by his side. His brows were drawn tight over his eyes, -and Frederic was most struck by his huge jutting nose. He seemed all -nose--a nose and a flying pen. He took no notice of Frederic, but -growled: - -"The figures--give me the figures!" - -The old servant took up a newspaper and read out a series of figures -which, as far as Frederic could make out, related to the price of -cotton. Lawrie took them down as she read, added a few words after -them, gathered and folded his sheets, thrust them into a dirty inky -envelope and held them out to the old woman. - -"I'll be late if I don't take a cab," she said. - -Lawrie fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a florin. She took -it and shuffled away. Lawrie gulped down the remainder of his coffee, -took up a battered green book and said: - -"Now we'll have some poetry." - -And he read half a canto of Spenser's "Faërie Queene" in a big -rumbling voice, mouthing the archaic words. - -Frederic could make little sense of it and sat taking in the room, the -heavy mahogany sideboard, the horsehair chairs by the fireplace, the -Biblical prints on the walls, the books on either side of the window, -and through the window the dismal walled garden with its starved -hawthorn trees and the cats playing about on the wall. The windows -were closed and the air in the room was thick and smelled of tobacco -and food and clothes. It was a dingy dusty room, made more than ever -forbidding by a reproduction of Munkaczy's _Christ before Pilate_, -which hung over the mantelpiece between the _Crucifixion_ of Rubens -and a photograph of a little Scotch church and a manse with gloomy -hills in the background. - -When the reading was finished Frederic said: - -"I'm sorry I interrupted you." - -"Not at all. I'd finished my work. I'm alone. I'm always alone in this -house. Have you ever thought how lonely a man can be in his own house? -. . . You've not? You don't think? May be you're wise, though, maybe -again, you're only young. Well, I tell you, a man can be very lonely -in his own house, but not many are as lonely as I am. Looking at it -purely philosophically it's something of an achievement--in a negative -sort of way. I mean, not many men can have all that nature has -provided for a man and get nothing at all out of it. Nearly all men -manage to get some pickings for their vanity, but I don't even get -that. I get nothing. . . . So do hundreds of thousands of people. They -can't. But the difference between them and me is that they can pretend -and I can't. Nature's very wasteful. She produces far more men and -women than she wants. Just a few are sound and really alive. The rest -are shadows. I'm a shadow. I don't know what you are. A sort of -betwixt and between I should say, just looking at you. The real men -make loveliness, and the intelligent shadows have a sort of echo of it -and have a sort of reflected life through it. The rest wither away and -are dead years and years before they die. What I can't stand though is -their damned cruelty. I can't expect you to make much of that. I talk -like that for hours to old Tibby. She's the most real person in this -house, and the rest of us are sticking to her like leeches. She's had -no life of her own, hasn't Tibby, and sometimes she will stand and -look at me and say, 'You're a wonderful talker, man,' and I'll say, -'I'm nothing else, woman.' Queer people, we are. But we're all queer -in this place to go on living in the darkness and mist of it as we do. -I've met your father. He's a comfortable man. It must be very pleasant -to have a comfortable man in the house." - -Frederic did his best to follow him in his harangue, and, though he -could make very little of it all, he was interested and wanted him to -go on. He had never been in a house like it before. Never had he had -such a sensation of empty darkness, and he wanted very much to know -what was in the rest of the house besides the boy who had spoken to -him on the doorstep and Tibby and the cat. And what did they all do -when old Lawrie got drunk? - -The boy Bennett came into the room, walked across to the book-shelves -by the window, took down a book and went out again without taking the -smallest notice of his father. - -The old man watched him with a sort of hunger, and he took a piece of -paper and tore it up into a thousand pieces and let them flutter down -on to the floor at his feet. - -Frederic plunged into his own affairs and said: - -"Do you remember some drawings I showed you? My brother's come back. I -think he wants them. The boy at the club . . ." - -"I have them." - -"You remember Mr. Beecroft said he was a genius." - -"Beecroft's a sot and a fool. But they're good. Things seen and felt. -I've given over asking for more than that." - -He went to a cupboard and produced the portfolio. Frederic saw it with -immense relief, and ceased to take any interest in old Lawrie, or -Tibby, or Bennett, or the cat. He was secure against any -unpleasantness, and the old man's talk seemed to him now only -maundering folly. Before he had been more than half convinced that the -world was a miserable place of shadows and shams. - -Except for awful moments Frederic had always found life very pleasant -and amusing. He had done very much as he pleased and fancied that he -had been remarkably successful in dodging consequences. He did not -imagine that things could ever be different, and thinking about it -always seemed to him to be a ridiculous waste of time. - -He took the portfolio and began to tell old Lawrie the little he knew -about Serge, and soon worked round to Beecroft's declaration that an -exhibition ought to be organised, and the old man, more to humour him -and to get rid of him than for any enthusiasm that he had, asked him -to bring his brother to the club some Sunday evening. Frederic -promised and took his leave. - -In the dark passage he met Bennett waiting for him. Bennett was very -nervous and took him into a little dark cell of a room at the foot of -the stairs and took him by the arm and whispered: - -"Did you really mean me to come? Of course I can't ask you to come -here. I can't, you know. But I would like to come to your house. You -sing, don't you, and act? I can sing and act, and I can draw and write -verses. Your brother's a painter, isn't he? I should love to come." - -Frederic felt irritated. The boy was so horribly in earnest. There was -nothing particularly delightful in the house in Fern Square, but if -the queer little idiot liked to come of course there was no reason why -he shouldn't. He was religious, and therefore, presumably, respectable -enough. - -"All right," said Frederic gruffly. "Next Sunday." - -"Oh! Thanks. Thanks." - -The boy took his hand and pressed it violently. He had a cold, hard -bony hand, and Frederic had a feeling of repulsion. It seemed -unnatural to him for a boy to be so emotional. - -He reached home to find Serge entertaining a large party, including -all the family, the Clibran-Bell girls, and his cousin, Streeten -Folyat, who had suddenly appeared on his way to Westmoreland, where he -had bought a sheep-farm. Streeten belonged to a wealthy branch of the -family and had already tried nine different professions. He was a man -of means, and Mrs. Folyat was making herself very charming to him, and -had him sitting between herself and Mary. Serge was at the piano -playing and singing absurd little buffoonish songs and teasing Jessie -Clibran-Bell, whom for the first time Frederic began to think rather -pretty. Minna was reading, and Gertrude was browsing in a corner, -nursing the dog. - -Minna put down her book as he entered and said: - -"Doesn't Frederic look important to-night? You shall have all the -centre of the room to yourself." - -"I got your drawings, Serge," Frederic spoke in rather a loud voice. -He wanted to attract Jessie Clibran-Bell's attention. "I lent them to -old Lawrie, the dramatic critic. He showed them to some friends of -his, and they say you must have an exhibition. We'll make your -fortune, yet. They say Africa's very much in the air just now." - -"Are you a painter, Mr. Folyat?" asked Jessie Clibran-Bell. - -"One of Frederic's friends says I'm a genius," replied Serge. - -"Oh! then you won't stay here. All the geniuses go to London. We had a -cousin who wrote books and she went to America and made a lot of -money." - -"I didn't say I was a genius. I only said one of Frederic's friends -said I was a genius. It does not follow that it is true." - -"You shall judge for yourself, Jessie," said Frederic. - -"How can she judge?" asked Serge. "She doesn't know anything about -it." - -Jessie went pink and her neck stiffened, and she turned to Frederic. -He produced the drawings from the portfolio and placed them round the -room, and an impromptu exhibition was held. Serge told them which they -ought to admire, and they admired them. On the whole they were puzzled -rather than interested. They were soon exhausted as a subject of -discussion, and Frederic, having drawn Jessie away from Serge, began -to tell her of his experience at old Lawrie's house. Presently his -voice drowned all the rest and all in the room were listening. - -"I asked young Bennett Lawrie to supper next Sunday," he said. - -"He's very beautiful, isn't he, Gertie?" observed Minna pointedly. - -"You know him then?" asked Frederic. - -"He's an acolyte at St. Saviour's. We've been to St. Saviour's once or -twice, haven't we Gertie?" - -"Have we?" Gertrude's face was a brilliant Turkey red. - -Mrs. Folyat wagged her head. - -"I don't think your father will like your filling the house with young -men." - -"Rubbish, mother," said Serge. "Every house ought to be filled with -young men and young women. Houses are quite intolerable unless people -are making love in them." - -"My dear!" - -"They've got to make love somewhere." - -Frederic caught Jessie's eye, and with a little swagger he said: - -"Yes. But we don't talk about it." - -"Good gracious me," said Serge with a laugh, "men and women hardly -talk about anything else. If they don't talk they think the more, and -that's bad for them." - -"I think you are disgusting," said Gertrude, tartly, and left the -room. - -"Is he a nice young man, this Bennett Lawrie?" asked Mrs. Folyat. - -"He's the queerest fish I ever met. His father's quite dotty." - -"I'd like to know him," interrupted Serge. - -"The boy's as nervous as a cat and as soft as a woman. He nearly cried -with gratitude when I asked him to come. They live opposite the -Haslams--Basil Haslam's a painter, or going to be one." - -"Oh! Minna knows him," said Mary with sudden malice. - -There was a gap in the conversation. Frederic asked Jessie if she -would accompany him, and so manoeuvred Serge away from the piano. He -sang a very sentimental love-ditty and gazed with soft eyes at the -back of Jessie's neck the while. - -When she left he insisted on seeing her home with her sister. It took -him twenty-five minutes, and when he returned he found Serge -buffooning for his mother and making her laugh till she cried. - -"Oh! dear. Oh! dear," she cried. "I haven't laughed so much for years. -You'd never think Serge was a grown man, would you, Frederic?" - -"Never," replied Frederic with asperity. - -"My good brother," said Serge solemnly, "you gave a remarkable -description just now of the house of the Lawries--an unhappy, -middle-class house. You said it felt like a prison with that raw-boned -old Scotswoman for goaler. I've been a free man all my life and I feel -about this house exactly what you felt about that. There's fear in it -and unfriendliness. I don't understand why, but I will understand -before I've done." - -The two brothers were standing close together, and Serge had -unwittingly raised his voice. Mrs. Folyat came and laid her hand on -his arm and said: - -"Please, please don't quarrel." - -"We're not quarrelling, mother," replied Serge, "Frederic is annoyed -with me. He doesn't know why, nor do I. It's those Lawries have upset -him. It's all right, mother. You go to bed. I'm a disturbing influence -at present. You'll get used to me and I shall become a habit like -everything else." - -"It isn't fair," said Frederic. - -"What isn't fair?" - -"It isn't fair to talk to mother like that. She doesn't understand -you." - -"Of course she doesn't. It isn't any good talking. Go to bed mother." - -Frederic led his mother to the door and went out with her. Streeten -declared that he must go and Mary saw him to the door. - -Turning, Serge found Minna watching him with a broad grin on her face. -She was as tall as he, big and fine, and he thought: - -"Well, she at least is a handsome woman. Pity she doesn't dress -better." - -Minna said: - -"I'm glad you made Frederic feel small. He's a beast." - -"Is he? What kind of a beast?" - -"The worst kind. A jealous beast." - -"I think I rather like you, Minna." - -"Thank you. And the rest of us?" - -"I'm prepared to like you all." - -"You're quite right about this house, Serge. It is a prison. It's been -getting worse and worse ever since James died. It was awful, of -course." - -"Why don't you marry?" - -"How can I? I've no money; can't make any--and I've no intention of -marrying a poor man. It isn't so easy to fall in love either--unless -you're like Bub." - -"Who?" - -"Gertrude. She's in love with that young Bennett Lawrie. She goes to -his church and looks at him as though he were a beautifully-cooked -chop. He is rather like that. I shall call him the mutton-chop when he -comes." - -"Don't any of the young women get married in these parts. What about -the Clibran-Bells?" - -"Oh! Jessie is in love with Frederic, always has been ever since he -turned up." - -"How long's that?" - -"A good many years. It was awful when we first came. We arrived at -five o'clock in the morning. It was pouring with rain, and we drove in -two cabs through the horrible dirty streets. We were all very tired, -and Gertrude and Mary had been squabbling in the train. We didn't know -anything about towns, and Ma had made us very excited by talking about -the rich people we were going to know--and marry. She always used to -be talking about marriage. She doesn't do it so much now." - -"Why on earth did they come? St. Withans was jolly enough." - -"I don't know. I think they lost some money, and Ma got sick of the -country and Mother Bub got tired of falling in love with the curates, -and they worried pa until he did it." - -"Does he always do what mother wants him to?" - -"Oh! yes. She's a nagger." - -Serge went up to Minna and put his arm round her waist and kissed her. -She took his face in her hands and kissed his lips. Then she sighed: - -"What a pity you're my brother." - -"I fancy a good many women say that to their brothers--when they don't -know any other men." - -"Have you known a lot of women?" - -"A good many." - -"I thought so. We seem to exist for you as individuals. To the -Frederic sort of man women only seem to exist as a surrounding -presence. . . . If I did something dreadful you'd stand by me, -wouldn't you?" - -"I hope so. But don't do anything dreadful just for the fun of it. It -isn't worth it." - -Minna gave a little purr of contentment and rubbed her cheek against -his and said: - -"You're so warm and friendly. I'm glad you came. But I can understand -people hating you like poison." - -"They do, my dear, they do." - -He kissed her again and she ran happily away and upstairs. - - - -X - -SUNDAY SUPPER - -_He for God only._--MILTON. - -PURITAN hostility to the proceedings in St. Paul's survived the demise -of Flynn and his newspaper and spluttered into activity upon occasion, -as when Francis instituted the Litany as a separate Sunday afternoon -service or allowed his school-room to be used for musical -entertainments organised by the local nigger minstrels--(the annual -visit of Moore and Burgess gave birth to numerous amateur troupes)--or -when in the jumble sales which were held at intervals he countenanced -and even patronised raffles. One pretext was as good as another, but -the fundamental grievance was his friendship with Father Soledano, a -priest attached to the Roman Catholic Cathedral. The offence was -greater in that he had no friend, hardly a kindly acquaintance among -the Anglican clergy. They fought shy of him because he had incurred -the disapproval of the dean, though their wives occasionally called on -Mrs. Folyat because she was still visited by the bishop's wife. - -Father Soledano was an Irishman of Spanish extraction, a little ugly -man, with a lame leg, stiff bristling hair receding from a knobby, -wrinkled forehead, little eyes glowing under bushy brows, a long upper -lip and a sensitive mouth, and a chin that looked as though he had to -shave it every half hour. - -The Roman Catholic Cathedral was about a mile away from St. Paul's, -and Father Soledano lived in the priest's house in an asphalt court -that lay under its shadow. The surrounding district was inhabited -mostly by poor Irish--ignorant, drunken, superstitious, and Jews, -whose morality was a reproach to the rest of the dwellers in the -slums; and there were French people, and Bavarians, Lithuanians, not a -few Poles, and refugees from Russia. All these were swept into the -various trades and manufactories--sweated tailoring, sweated -shirt-making, sweated jam-making, sweated engineering. And Father -Soledano found his work of digging for their souls infinitely amusing. -Several of his Catholics lived over in the parish of St. Paul's, and -he had sought Francis out on hearing a tale of his kindness to an old -woman who, by practising midwifery, supported her daughter-in-law and -four children. This old woman was a Catholic, and every penny she -could spare was spent in buying images of saints. She had the Virgin, -and St. Peter, and St. Anthony of Padua, and a little Saint Catherine -of Siena. One day two of the men who had assaulted Frederic and -overturned the gravestone of the boy James, made a round of all the -Catholic houses they could discover and destroyed all the images. When -Francis heard of it he went from house to house and was given a list -of all that had been destroyed, and a week later he went round with -his chief sidesman carrying a clothes-basket full of saints, and made -good every loss. When the aforesaid old woman found herself with a new -Virgin, a new Saint Peter, and a new Saint Anthony of Padua and a more -beautiful new Saint Catherine of Siena than she had ever thought of in -her wildest dreams, she knelt down and began to pray for the soul of -the English Father. And Francis knelt down and prayed with her, and -all the children gathered round and stared at their grandmother and -the portly bearded man kneeling there by the kitchen table, and their -mother began to cry, and the old woman began to cry, until Francis -lifted her up and kissed her on the cheek. Then he sent the children -out to buy bread and jam and cake and they had a lovely tea together. - -Francis did not tell the tale to anybody, but it was soon out all over -the parish, and there was much indignation. A few of the parishioners -left the church and Mrs. Folyat was shocked and affronted. What -offended her most was that Francis had carried the images publicly and -openly through the streets. Being an inveterate gossip herself, she -could not endure being the subject of it, except it were flattering to -her vanity. - -Father Soledano wrote to Francis and thanked him, and Francis invited -him to come and see him. The invitation was accepted, and the two men -found that they had many things in common outside their profession, -and they had many a long talk about old Dublin days. Soledano was -amused by the Anglican's easy-going optimism, and Francis was shocked, -interested, and stimulated by the priest's almost cynical pessimism. -They never discussed religion. To a certain extent they secretly -allied forces in their work of dealing with the moral and economic -difficulties of their poor, a certain substratum of whom were -ultimately Catholic and Anglican according as they could win the -attention and sympathy of the district visitors or the Little Sisters, -though they hardly ever attended service either in the Cathedral or in -St. Paul's. - -Every now and then Soledano would come to supper at Fern Square on -Sundays, and it so happened that he was there when Bennett Lawrie -appeared for the first time dressed sprucely for the occasion with a -new suit and a very high collar and a blue birds-eye tie. The whole -family was present, having been to church in full force--Serge read -the Lessons--and they had sat down to their meal, having forgotten all -about young Lawrie, when there came a resounding peal at the bell. The -servant was out and Gertrude opened the door to him. His face was -utterly tragic, and he could hardly find his voice to ask if Mrs. -Folyat were in. Gertrude admitted him, showed him into the -dining-room, where several people were talking all at once, and -disappeared into the kitchen to fetch him plate, knife, and fork. It -was some moments before Frederic recognised him--two gas-jets in glass -globes do not give very much light--and Bennett suffered agonies of -shyness and began to wish he had never come. He saw Francis open his -mouth and insert a large piece of cold beef and his beard wag as he -chewed it slowly, and he rather resented it. He had romanticised -Francis, and had always pictured him in his vestments very saintly and -impressive. The other man, Soledano, sitting between Mrs. Folyat and -Minna, looked much more like a saint. . . . Minna gazed at Bennett -with mischievous approval, and he thought her very beautiful and cast -down his eyes. Frederic said "Hullo" and told his mother who Bennett -was, and Mrs. Folyat bade Serge and Mary make room for the young man -between them. Gertrude returned with plate, knife and fork. Bennett -sat down at the place made for him, and conversation was resumed and -flowed on over him. It was chiefly concerned with food, and Mrs. -Folyat was very anxious to know what Father Soledano had to eat at the -priests' house. He told her they ate very little meat and a great deal -of macaroni. Mary tried to talk to Bennett but could get nothing out -of him but "Yes" and "No." He liked music but knew nothing about it, -and had never been to a concert. - -Serge tackled him. The directness of his questions embarrassed -Bennett, and the kindliness of his interest moved him so that a lump -rose in his throat and he could hardly get out his replies. He had, he -said, been born in the town and had hardly ever been away from it; -once to Scotland, where his father came from, and once to Westmoreland -and once to Derbyshire. His family were so poor, you see, though they -had once been quite rich and lived in a big house with a garden. He -could just remember the garden. He was nineteen and had been in -business since he was sixteen, first of all in a little office where -there was only one clerk, and then, by the influence of his uncles, in -a great firm of shippers where, if you did not earn very much, you -were at any rate safe. His mother was Low Church and his father was a -Presbyterian but never went to any place of worship. He had two -brothers and two sisters, but they were all older than himself and -didn't care about the things he cared for, though one of his brothers -sang in the choir at the Church of the Ascension, where they only wore -surplices and no cassocks. . . . Timidly he asked Serge if it was true -that he was an artist, and Serge laughed and said he was a sort of -middle-aged embryo. - -"That must be splendid," said Bennett, wistfully. "I draw, but not -real things, only dreams and horrible grotesques. We started a family -paper once but the others wouldn't do anything, and I had to write it -all myself and draw all the pictures, and they laughed at everything I -did, and I drew a picture of my mother being carried off by the devil -and they burnt it. I write verses about the people in the office, but -they don't like them unless they're--you know--rather nasty. We can't -smoke in our office and everybody takes snuff. I think I'd like to -have been a clergyman." - -He suddenly became conscious that Gertrude's eyes were upon him and -that she was devouring every word he said. He had recognised her as -the young woman who came so often to St. Saviour's, and he had thought -about her a great deal. He had tortured himself with the notion that -she might have come to see him, had even dreamed lofty romances in -which she figured as a mysterious lady of high degree who swept him -off in a great carriage with two tremendous horses, and then had been -ashamed. It comforted him a little to know that she was the daughter -of the Rev. Francis Folyat, and that her attendance at St. Saviour's -could therefore only have been prompted by the highest spiritual -motives. . . . All the same she was looking at him exactly as she did -when he came down to the steps of the nave and stood with the great -brass offertory-plate. He was wretchedly nervous, but he imagined the -Folyats to be a happy united family, and he basked in the warmth which -seemed to pervade their house. He listened to their bantering -conversation and was very much afraid of them all except Serge. -Frederic seemed to drink a vast quantity of beer, and he remembered -stories that he had heard of him in the office. Like everybody else -who was interested in church matters, he was familiar with the flying -gossip concerning the Folyats, and the ill-natured remarks that were -current about the unmarried daughters. He thought Minna more and more -beautiful, and Mary devoted, and Gertrude--he could not disentangle -Gertrude from all the absurd things he had thought of her before he -knew who she was. - -Mrs. Folyat began, as she always did in the presence of a newcomer, to -talk of the ancestors on the wall, and to tell the lurid stories of -the Red Lady, who had known more than was ever written of the Monmouth -rebellion, and the Grey Lady who had such a violent temper, that, -losing it one day out driving with her husband in a high chariot, she -boxed his ears so that he lost his balance and fell out and broke his -neck. She rambled on by way of Baron Folyat to Willie, now safely -established as Earl of Leedham, and she declared, being thoroughly -warmed to her subject, that failing heirs male, and in the event of -the extirpation of two other branches of the family--and less likely -things had happened--Serge would become heir, or his sons, if he ever -had any. - -Bennett was much impressed, as it was meant that he should be, and -began to talk of his own ancestry. There were Lawries in Elgin as far -back as Robert the Bruce, and for hundreds of years there had been -Lawries who were lairds or in the ministry. Mrs. Folyat asked him who -his mother was, and Bennett replied: - -"She was a Miss Smith. She married my father when she was seventeen. -People don't seem able to marry so young nowadays." - -"It is difficult, isn't it, Gertrude?" asked Minna. - -The meal came to an end, and Francis asked Frederic to accompany him -to the study to discuss a theatrical entertainment that was in process -of organisation in aid of the restoration of the organ. Mary and Minna -cleared away and Gertrude helped her mother upstairs, carrying her -spectacles, book and knitting-bag. Serge, Bennett, and Father Soledano -were left in the dining-room. Serge and Bennett smoked and Father -Soledano began to talk. Bennett was unused to drinking beer. Serge had -plied him with it rather too generously in the frequent lapses in -their conversation, and the fumes of it had gone to his head so that -it felt very hot and large, while inside it his brain worked with -unwonted swiftness and a hectic clarity. His cheeks were flushed and -they burned, but on the whole he found his new sensations very -pleasant, and there was a sort of splendour in being treated by these -grown men, an artist and a priest, as one of themselves. To Bennett -all artists were great artists--he was not his father's son for -nothing--and the priesthood was the noblest and most exalted calling -possible for man. He lived from Sunday to Sunday. On Monday morning he -died and was buried in his office. On Saturday evening came a glorious -resurrection, and he rose to exalted heights each Sunday morning when -he took the sacrament. He was an emotional creature and had no other -outlet. - -He sat looking from Serge to Father Soledano and from Father Soledano -to Serge as they talked, but took little account of what they said. -They were exchanging impressions of the town and speaking of it in a -curious critical way that Bennett found difficulty in following. He -knew nothing of the machinery of the world. He was poor, and he had -accepted it as axiomatic that poor people had to do work that was -distasteful to them. He had no notion of what that work resulted in, -or who profited by it. You went on working until you had enough to -marry, and then you married and went on working until you died. His -brothers were both bank-clerks, and he gathered that their work was -even duller than his own, which consisted in addressing envelopes and -taking messages down into the warehouse where there were rough men who -were even poorer than himself. They packed and unpacked bales of -cotton-goods which were placed on lorries and carried off to trains, -which took them away to the sea and across the sea to Bombay and -Calcutta and Shanghai and Yokohama. There were many other processes -going on in the office and warehouses, but that seemed to be the -general principle--cotton came from America, was bought on the -Exchange, spun and woven in the mills near Oldham, brought to the -warehouse and dispatched--fully insured--through the complicated -machinery of the office. There were five partners in the firm and they -were all very rich. One of the employees, the head-clerk, had six -hundred a year, but he himself, Bennett, received every week only -thirty shillings. Many young men of his age were earning only half -that sum, and he was quite ready to admit, without thought or -examination, that he was worth no more to his employers. He did not -understand the machinery in which he played a part, did not want to -understand it, and did not find it sufficiently interesting. Being -poor, he had to work, and the nature of the work was not his affair. -It absorbed the greater part of his life, but it was outside his work -that he was as really alive as he could be. - -This visit to Fern Square was perhaps the greatest adventure of his -life. He had heard Father Soledano's voice droning on for some time, -and now he heard words that interested him. - -"The middle classes are beginning to invest their savings in -industrial securities. That is going to make things worse than ever -for the poor, since it means organised exploitation, dividends to be -paid as well as the profits of private enterprise. It seems to me that -men are inventing machinery for making money and letting them get out -of hand. A machine that no man can control or use for the purposes of -good is the most perilous engine of destruction." - -"A machine," thought Bennett, and at once there came to his mind the -streets surrounding his office where all day long there was the thud -of machinery and thousands of men and women being swallowed up in the -morning by great black ugly buildings, and spewed out again in the -evening, all, he supposed, as weary and listless as he felt himself on -every evening except Saturday. - -"Isn't that," said Serge, "isn't that what has happened with the -Church? . . . You don't mind my discussing it in that way? . . . -Hasn't it become a machine which takes everything from men and gives -them nothing? I fancy my father's Church doesn't meddle much, or, at -any rate, effectually, with politics, but yours is always struggling -after the temporal power which it has lost." - -"That is because we believe that the Church and State should be one." - -"I agree. And so they would be if the Church were really a Church, and -the State were really a State. I have never been to your church, but I -know that my father's is only an imitation, a fairly good imitation -and quite attractive, but it has nothing at all to do with religion as -I understand it." - -"It depends what you mean by religion." - -"I take it to mean the profoundest instinct in a human being, that -instinct of life which embraces and should direct all the rest." - -"I agree, but it is impossible." - -"Why is it impossible?" - -Bennett did not hear Father Soledano's reply. The dialogue had been to -him like the murmuring of mysterious voices in a dream, bearing no -relation to his own actual experience. His own religion was so -axiomatic that the possibility of criticism, outside crude -condemnation, to which he was hardened and accustomed, had never -occurred to him, and yet, now that it had happened, it was as -something remote, impious, but menacing and disturbing. That Father -Soledano should lend himself to such talk perturbed him not at all, -for he had been brought up to believe that anything was possible for -the Roman Catholic priesthood. He was conscious of resentment, and -told himself that it was because these things were being said in Mr. -Folyat's house. He was hurt, and childishly he wished to hand on the -pain to some one. He waited until Father Soledano's voice had died -down, and then he said, taking no account of his words: - -"It isn't for us to inquire into these things. If we believe at all in -the authority and the Divine origin of the Church we are bound by its -tradition and its--its dogma." - -"I beg your pardon," replied Serge. "I forgot that you were there. I -don't believe in the authority or the Divine origin of the Church, and -I refuse to be bound by its tradition, which has always been, to say -the least of it, unhappy in its results, or its dogma, which seems to -me unsound and more or less contradictory of the spirit of the New -Testament." - -"But--but . . ." Bennett pounced on Serge with an air of triumph, -brandishing his point before proving it. "But what about morals?" - -"That," said Serge, "is exactly where you and I part company. You -Christians have only evolved a morality which you apply to the affairs -of others and not to your own. You have no standard of goodness--only -the wickedness of other people, a Pharisaic standard which would have -been repulsive to the Man whom you choose to regard as your Founder. -My father's sermons, for instance--and they are like every parson's -sermons--begin by drawing such a frightful picture of human wickedness -that when it is over his hearers feel that they are angels of goodness -in comparison. It's an old dodge, and I daresay Father Soledano makes -use of it too." - -"I do," said Father Soledano. "I do." - -Bennett gaped at him. He felt that he would burst into tears if this -went on any longer, and indeed his eyes were wet and his throat was so -dry that he could not speak. - -"You like your religion?" asked Serge. - -"It is my whole life." Bennett was surprised at the ferocity with -which he said this. He was staggered by Serge's answer: - -"I am sorry for you. You will be badly hurt when life gobbles you up -and gives you other engrossing interests, which you will be -ill-equipped to tackle." - -"Come, come," said Father Soledano. "It is not fair. It is not fair to -come down from the general to the particular like that." - -"I protest," answered Serge. "My whole indignation arises from the -unkindness and dishonesty of stuffing young people, and ignorant -people, with generalisations." - -"What else can you give them? They are not conscious of -individuality." - -"I don't believe that, and even if it were so you ought to leave them -free to become conscious--if they can." - -"The risk is too great." - -"What risk?" - -Bennett's mind had been moving swiftly and partly by memory, partly by -intuition he came to this: - -"People can't do as they like." - -Serge stood up suddenly and paced round the room. - -"Young idiot!" he said. "They can, and they do. Isn't it your -experience, Father, that they do? The trouble is that with all these -foolish generalisations buzzing in their heads they are always doing -the wrong things, and doing them in the wrong way, shuffling, and -sneaking so as to hide away from the bogies you give them." He turned -to Bennett and asked: "Has what you do and think on Sunday the -slightest bearing on what you do and think on week-days?" - -"It keeps me from temptation," said Bennett so earnestly that there -was not the smallest hint of priggishness in him. - -Serge took him by the arm and lifted him clean out of his chair and -set him down with a jolt on to his feet. - -"Keeps you from temptation, does it! How?--By running away from it." - -Bennett was very angry. He raised his voice: - -"If you had to live in my house you wouldn't talk like that. My -father's a drunken beast and my mother doesn't even try to understand -us. You'd believe in God if you lived in our house. . ." He came to an -end suddenly. Serge patted him kindly on the shoulder. - -"That's all right. That's all right. Let's go upstairs and see what a -happy home is like, or perhaps you would prefer to go and talk to my -father and Father Soledano in the study." - -"I'll go with you," said Bennett. - -They went upstairs, and Father Soledano joined Francis in the study. -In the drawing-room they found Frederic holding forth about the -performance in the school-room. The piece chosen was _The Rose and the -Ring_, in a musical version. - -Gertrude asked Bennett if he could sing. He replied that he could, and -Frederic graciously allowed him the use of one of his songs, "On, on, -my bark, dash through the foam." Bennett had a light baritone voice -with a curious harsh quality in the middle notes, but he loved singing -and really let himself go. When he had finished Mrs. Folyat looked up -from her _Family Herald_ and said: - -"Very nice, very nice indeed. Even Frederic does not sing it so well." - -Frederic asked Bennett to take a part in _The Rose and the Ring_, and -he accepted. Gertrude took him aside to show him his part, and Mary -produced her violin and played Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words for -half an hour, after which she produced a table and cards and sat -playing Bézique with her mother. (Mrs. Folyat declared that she could -not sleep without her game. No one else was allowed to play cards on -Sunday.) - -Serge sat teasing Minna, and time flew. - -There came a ring at the bell, and after a little interval a gaunt -figure in black stalked into the room, stood by the door, and said: - -"Bennett, your mother says you're to come home." - -Bennett rose to his feet at once, muttered good-bye, turned the colour -of a red peony and slunk out after the old Scotch servant. - - - -XI - -ART AND DRAMA - -_Each had an upper stream of thought - That made all seem as it was not._ - PETER BELL THE THIRD. - -LAWRIE, Beecroft and Co. had not a monopoly in culture. Our City -Fathers provided us with an art gallery, to which, with praiseworthy -regularity they added two Academy pictures every year; the Town-hall -had been decorated by a Pre-Raphaelite, and there was a whole network -of Free Libraries, all equipped with thousands of books in a uniform -binding, and with the smell proper to Free Libraries. In the cold -weather they were always very full, in the hot weather they were -always very empty; but in the hot weather the accumulated smells of -the winter were distilled and concentrated. For music we had two or -three series of concerts during the winter months. They were chiefly -patronised by Germans and Jews, and the English bragged about them. We -had a College of Music, and a School of Art in connection with the -municipal technical school. This institution was presided over by a -Socialistic disciple of William Morris, who spent a great part of his -free time in designing banners for Friendly Societies--Buffaloes, Free -Foresters, Hearts of Oak--and cartoons for Labour journals. It was -situated in a square which was typical of the town. In the centre of -it stood a huge ugly Anglican church, and three sides of it were -filled with a Presbyterian chapel, a Wesleyan chapel, a Baptist -chapel, a Secular hall, a Maternity Hospital and a Dental Hospital. -Down a by-street was the headquarters of the Salvation Army, and down -another a larger Roman Catholic church. Quite near was the office in -which Bennett Lawrie worked, and all round were slums, public-houses, -brothels, a wedge of infamy between the working centre and the -outskirts. All round the Anglican church in the centre of the square -ran a wide pavement on which were wooden benches. Here at night came -hundreds of men, women and boys who had no resting-place. They spent -half the night there until they were moved on by the police, when they -went to a similar pavement with benches outside the Infirmary, meeting -half-way their comrades in misery who had been moved on from that -place--a sort of general post. In the day-time the square was always -busy, for two main roads met in it, and tram-lines from four -directions converged. Near at hand were many cheap shops, and the -wives of the clerks came thither to make their daily purchases. - -It was to this School of Art that Serge Folyat came as the result of -his exhibition, which was an almost unredeemed failure. Beecroft -banged the drum and old Lawrie blew the trumpet, but the local school -of artists were contemptuous, and declared that the new genius could -not draw. Serge quite agreed. He sold ten of his pictures, and went to -see the disciple of William Morris and arranged to attend eight -classes a week, four in the afternoon and four in the evening. - -He found the school very amusing, though at first his position was a -little difficult, for most of the students were very young and -inclined to look askance at a man with a beard turning grey and his -hair growing thin on the top of his head. The classes were very cheap, -and he was able to pay for the first term himself and postponed -discussion as to future ways and means, reckoning that in three -months' time his family would have digested and assimilated him, and -added him to the already large number of habits which made their -common existence tolerable. He worked very hard both at home and at -the school, wrestling with the horrible difficulties of the human -body. He had an intuitive feeling that he would never be able to draw -hands, and he became very ingenious in concealing them. - -The classes at the school were mixed. There were a few serious -students of both sexes, a great many who attended from the vanity of -talent, and some to whom studying art was an occupation. A little -hunchback with a malicious intense face had been there for thirteen -years, and an old spinster of fifty-five had spent fifteen years -without ever passing an examination or taking a single certificate. -She was extremely hopeful, and one of the most cheerful persons in the -school. On the whole it was not cheerful. It lacked spirit and -enthusiasm. Many of the young men no doubt had a secret conviction -that they had a great destiny, but they were rather ashamed of it, and -only in rare moments of excitement did they dare to let it appear. -Theodore Benskin, the Morrisian principal of the school, had been -enthusiastic at twenty-five, but he had stopped there. However, he was -a good teacher of a mechanical sort. His business was to turn out -draughtsmen rather than artists, and he succeeded. Serge desired to -become a draughtsman, and he followed Benskin's directions, though all -the while he had a feeling of the grotesque in what he was doing, and -was inclined to think that a bushman's drawings on the wall of a cave -were of more value than all the finished studies turned out under -Benskinian rules. However, he was nettled by the failure of his -exhibition, and saw that it was quite useless to take keen pleasure in -his work unless by the work he could communicate that pleasure to -others. He had no concise theory of art beyond a conviction that -unless it could create pleasure there was no excuse for it. As for -making money by it, there were a thousand easier ways of doing that, -ways that left more leisure and did not induce such profound -depression. It was all very well, he thought, to gird, as did almost -everybody he met, at the sordidness and grimness of the town in which -they lived, but the most miserable of all the people in it were the -supposed artists, the men who frequented the Arts Club. They were all -men of talent, but none of them ever seemed to have used their gifts -to any purpose. They were perpetually cursing the lack of appreciation -of their fellow-citizens, but they had never made any really serious -attempt to win them or to open up any new way for their minds. When it -came to the point their standards were those of the rich men, upon -whose caprice they lived. Like everybody else in the town they put up -with money as the sole channel of communication between one man and -another. Serge used sometimes to try to talk to the waifs and strays -on the benches outside the church in the square, but he found them -nearly all brutalised and fuddled. They seemed to have no thought -beyond the next meal, no programme beyond the next drink. They cadged. - -Among the students at the school was a young man whom Serge had marked -out from the very first moment. He was short, and had a large head, -dark hair, bright eyes, and he was always merry. He had a joke for -everyone, and he was always in love with one or other of the -girl-students. Benskin was proud of him, for he won all possible -prizes and was always solidly working. His name was Basil Haslam, -brother of that spotty-faced youth who was Frederic's boon companion. -They made acquaintance quickly but did not become friends until they -both entered for a competition for a prize, the subject being a -sea-piece. Haslam won it, and protested with Benskin that Folyat's was -the best, because Folyat knew about the sea and he didn't. - -He was delighted when Serge told him that he had been a sailor. - -"Ah! That's it," he said. "That's it. I've never been anything. I can -just draw but I don't understand about men and how they live." - -"That's not very difficult," replied Serge. "They are much the same -everywhere. They are all born in the same way, and death has not many -variations. What lies in between is largely a matter of eating, -drinking, and sleeping." - -"And loving." - -"Just a few get as far as that. Not many." - -"But all of them seem to think about getting married." - -"That has surprisingly little to do with love. How much love do you -get in your own house?" - -"Not much. But then they think I'm queer. My father's a doctor. He -wanted me to be a doctor, but I've got a hundred-and-fifty of my own, -so I can do what I like. I shall go to London as soon as I'm through -here. It's no good being a painter here. They all think it's a joke, a -sort of excuse for doing nothing." - -"I know. They think pictures are produced automatically--like -everything else." - -"Old Benskin's automatic enough." - -"Exactly. He can work just as he can go to sleep, almost without -knowing that he's doing it. It's a matter of habit. He's almost -forgotten how he used to despise that sort of thing." - -"Do you think he ever did?" - -"Of course, or his work wouldn't be as good as it is." - -"I can't understand people ceasing to be keen." - -"I can. You only need to wobble a very little to come down on the -wrong side. Then you're done for--in Hell. And after a bit you find -that you quite like it, except in awful moments when you realise that -after all it is Hell and that you might so easily have been in -Heaven." - -"I know what you mean. You mean that the whole thing rests with -yourself. But it's rotten luck when you're weak and can't help doing -the wrong thing though you see the right thing the whole time." - -"But we're all like that. We only go to Hell when we do the wrong -thing and pretend that it's the right." - -"How did you find that out?" - -"By a careful study of Hell and its inhabitants." - -"Then you don't mean the Hell one's people talk about?" - -"No. I mean here and now, the world as it is. I'm not interested in -any other." - -"Neither am I. Hurray!" - -This conversation was the first of many. Haslam used to wait for Serge -and walk with him as far as their roads lay together. He was an -ambitious young man with his eyes set on the road to London, not so -much because he was eager for fame and material rewards as because he -was hotly impatient of art which stopped short at Benskin and -Beecroft. - -"But," Serge would say, "Benskin and Beecroft will both die." - -"I know, but there'll be a new Beecroft and a new Benskin by that -time." - -"That's true. We shall never be rid of them." - -"I expect London is crammed full of Benskins and Beecrofts." - -"Maybe, but there are more of the other sort there too." - -"If I don't reach London by the time I'm twenty-seven I shall throw up -the sponge." - -"Why twenty-seven?" asked Serge, smiling. - -"Oh! if a man hasn't done something by the time he's twenty-seven he -never will." - -"I'm a good deal more than that. . ." - -"But you've done everything. You've made yourself. You're not really -any older than I am, and everybody here is so horribly old." - -"Yes, they all come to a bad and perfectly respectable end." - -Haslam swung his fist in the air and shouted indignantly: - -"Respectable! Respectable! Give me a list of any ten men living in -respectable suburban villas and I warrant you there'll be more -dishonesty and cowardly misdoing in their lives than in ten of the -so-called criminal classes. I don't understand it. I do rotten things -myself--who doesn't?--but I can't shut my eyes to them when they're -done. Take my brother. He's a beastly idiot or an idiotic beast, -always getting into scrapes and shuffling out of them. By the time -he's thirty he'll still be doing the same things, but he'll have -learned how to prevent them coming to the surface. He'll marry, settle -down, enjoy a comfortable income, be a pillar of the Church and a -smug, hard Pharisee like all the rest, with all his tracks carefully -covered up and his conscience having a splendid time going over them." - -"I don't think it matters to any man," said Serge, "what his brother -is and is not." - -"I know what you mean. It isn't worth while letting out at brutes like -my brother, but it's a great comfort to be able to do it -occasionally." - -"Good Lord! My dear, we can't do anything. We must all stew in our own -juice. I'd have a lively time of it if I began to worry about my -brother Frederic's morals. I have quite enough to do to look after my -own." - -"That's all very well. I don't mind my brother's morals so much, but -what I can't swallow is that he will loathe art. . ." - -"Art will survive that. Art is the concern of free men. Men who have -made themselves prisoners cannot understand it, and men always hate -what they cannot understand, until they realise that the few great -principles of the world were founded without any consideration for -their vanity. Then they can laugh. The artists, I imagine, are free -men, and they write, paint, make music, because more direct action is -almost impossible for them in a world made captive by lies, shams, and -hypocrisies. When all men and all women are free there will be no art, -for there will be no need for it. Life itself will be enough. It will -be so splendid." - -"I don't believe that." Haslam became suddenly despondent. "If there -isn't to be anything but life, what's the good of anything?" - -"The answer to that is--everything. The few men who attain freedom -must tell the joy of it for the rest and for those who come after -them. Spiritual evolution is slow, like every other natural process. -Every true artist raises the imaginative level of humanity, but -imaginative art is a small thing compared with the imaginative life. -It is easier. Some men have to choose between the two. They nearly -always choose wrongly." - -There was a long silence, Haslam strode along by Serge's side. At last -he said: - -"You are queer. One moment you make me want to shout with joy, and the -next you drag me down to the depths and I want to cry. You seem to -believe in such big things, but you don't seem to believe in men at -all." - -"In most men, not at all." - -"And women?" - -"Even less in women. They are always seeing things with men's eyes, -always appealing to them by their debased instincts. Clever women are -even worse. They try to escape the dilemma by appealing to men's -intellects. I hate intellect. Fine women are always driving fine men -into the arms of fools, or worse. The world is in a mess simply -because ninety-nine people out of a hundred make a mess of their love -affairs." - -"But if there is such a thing as spiritual evolution it must all come -right in the end." - -"That's no comfort to me. I shan't see it. This world will have been -snuffed out millions of years before then. It will have served its -purpose, and most of us will have missed our opportunity." - -"I hope I shan't." - -"I hope you won't." - -They parted, and Serge made his way to St. Paul's School, where he had -promised to attend the final rehearsal of _The Rose and the Ring_. -There he found his father sitting half-way down the room which was lit -only with one gas-jet and was empty save for Jessie Clibran-Bell at -the piano under the rudely-constructed stage--barrels and planks--and -many rows of school desks, which were desks and forms combined, with -the desks turned down and the ink-wells removed. On the walls were -pictures of elephants, tigers and rhinoceroses, texts, the tonic -sol-fa, and two or three oleographs representing Biblical -scenes--Elisha and the Bears, Saul Listening to David's Harping, and -the Foolish Virgins. The walls themselves were distempered a bleak -grey, and were rather dirty. A harmonium stood against the wall -opposite the door, and above this was a glass case containing a -stuffed squirrel that had lost its fur and one glass eye. Serge asked -his father what it might be doing there. Francis disclaimed -responsibility for the conduct of the week-day school and surmised -that it was used for an object-lesson in natural history. - -"Better than nothing," he said, but he did not seem to be at all -interested. - -Serge plunged with a question: - -"I've been thinking a good deal since I came here. Why don't you send -my mother away for a time?" - -"She wouldn't go." - -"Why not go with her?" - -"Where to?" - -"Anywhere. It doesn't matter." - -"Are we very stick-in-the-mud?" - -"It isn't that. But why not go away--or leave Fern Square? Minna tells -me that neither you nor my mother have been the same since James died. -. . . It must have been a shock to you." - -"It was." - -"You don't mind my mentioning it?" - -"Not at all." - -Serge waited and hoped for more to come, but nothing did. Francis was -in his most taciturn mood; he kept humming and buzzing to himself like -a great bee, and fingering the amethyst cross on his waistcoat. Serge -took another plunge. - -"How much is this living worth?" - -"Three hundred." - -"How much was St. Withans worth?" - -"Six-fifty." - -Serge made no comment. Presently he asked: - -"Did you know what you were coming to?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Did my mother?" - -"I told her." - -"Are you sorry?" - -"What's the good?" - -Francis dropped his amethyst cross and laid his foot on his right knee -and began thrusting his finger inside his elastic-sided boot. It was a -very old boot and much worn at the heel. Seeing that made Serge notice -for the first time that his father's clothes were shabby, out of shape -and dusty. He began to cast back in his memory, and with some -difficulty he was able to picture his father and mother as a young man -and woman--he in knee-breeches and silk stockings and silver buckles -to his shoes, and she in a full gown of flowered silk cut low on her -pretty shoulders--walking arm in arm in the gardens at St. Withans, -and then that was blotted out with recollections not so pleasing, his -father silent and his mother talking, talking, talking, then crying, -then talking again; then meals taken in a cold atmosphere of -restraint. He could remember jolly walks with his father, and scenes -of great tenderness with his mother, and the last day when he sobbed -his heart out and he was driven with his chest away and away until the -Vicarage and then the church-tower were lost from sight. He could -recognise himself in the small boy in all those memories, but in the -man and woman of those days he could not see the taciturn old man--for -he was old--sitting by his side, or the foolish old woman in Fern -Square with her blankly sorrowful face and her pathetic chatter of -"the gentry" and "common people." He found that he had much affection -for both, was rather surprised to find it, and was amused to discover -himself casting about for some melodramatic event which should account -for their listlessness and indifference to each other, their -daughters, everything and everybody. Francis was a good man; the -ex-convict of that first dismal day had said so. Mrs. Folyat was a -good woman; more than one woman in the parish had borne witness to -that.--Nothing had happened. They had dodged everything, like so many -others. For them (Serge thought) as for so many others, life had -always been round the corner--round the corner. The words lilted in -his mind like a refrain, and he said aloud: - -"Round the corner." - -"Eh?" said Francis, startled out of his reverie. - -"I should think it over if I were you," replied Serge, "about going -away, I mean. To be quite frank with you, I find my mother a little -dull." - -"Dull? I wouldn't say dull. Not dull. No. We're quiet people, that's -all, quiet people. She lived in a very quiet place when she was young. -I was curate then. Did I ever tell you about the murder that happened -there? I will some day." - -A head was thrust through the curtain, hurried whispers were exchanged -with Jessie Clibran-Bell and she began to thump out some very -indifferent music that would have served admirably for a child's game -of musical-chairs. - -"Was it a good murder?" asked Serge. - -"It was a horrible murder." - -The curtain was drawn. It showed some reluctance and had to be -assisted by the King. Gertrude was the Fairy Gruffanuff, and Bennett -Lawrie was Prince Bulbo, with a tenor song much too high for his light -baritone voice. - -The entertainment was very indifferent in quality, but it seemed to -give great pleasure to the performers, especially to Bennett Lawrie, -the Bottom of the company. He acted with extraordinary intensity. He -seemed to have hypnotised himself into the belief that he was actually -a Prince, so that he was extremely comic and yet very pathetic. His -legs were very thin, large at the knees and more than a little bowed, -and in his pink tights they looked enormously long--a figure of fun, -and yet he was compelling and quixotically heroic. He was right out of -the picture, and nothing else in it seemed to exist for him. When he -was on the stage nothing else existed for his audience of two. He had -naturally the gift of making his personality surge over the footlights -into the auditorium, and he seemed to exult in the exercise of his -power without in the least caring what he did with it. Serge admired -him, but on the whole disliked his exhibition. He whispered to his -father: - -"Sheer blatant egoism." - -"Who?" - -"That boy." - -"He's very funny. Queer, he never says a word when he comes to the -house. He is preternaturally solemn and always looks as though he were -on the point of bursting into tears." - -"I've seen many young men like that here. I fancy they don't get -enough to eat." - -Bennett appeared on the stage again, and Francis began to shake with -laughter at his antics. A moment later and he was brushing a tear-drop -from his nose. - -When the rehearsal was over Serge went out and bought a bottle of port -at the public-house next door but one to the church, a cake and some -biscuits, and took them in to the actors assembled in the -green-room--one of the two small class-rooms of the school. He found -Gertrude in tears and threatening to throw up her part, Frederic -shouting at her, Bennett Lawrie supporting her, and the whole company -looking very odd and unreal with the paint thick on their faces or -melting down into their collars. Francis was making himself amiable -and telling everybody in turn that he had never enjoyed any -performance so well. - -Minna, wearing an absurd golden wig, said: - -"I'm sure Serge didn't like it." - -"I was interested," he replied. - -And indeed he had found it absorbing to see how much these people, -when they were pretending to be some one else, revealed their -characters as they rarely did in ordinary life. He was immensely sorry -for them all without exactly knowing why. Without knowing why, he -excepted Minna. He had a curious faith in Minna. In Gertrude he -believed not at all. She was in love with Bennett Lawrie. That much -was clear, but she was in love idiotically. In the green-room he heard -her covering Bennett with gross flattery which he gulped down -fatuously. - - - -XII - -ANNETTE - -_Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow - And the heavy rain to follow._ - CHIMES. - -ANNETTE in Westmoreland had the small happenings in the household in -Fern Square week by week as far as her mother knew them. Every Friday -evening Mrs. Folyat used to write five letters: a short one to -Annette, a long one to Leedham because he was so far away, one to a -friend in Potsham with whom she had corresponded ever since her -marriage, and two to elegant relations. She had no power of -consecutive thought, and her letters rambled and ambled, a queer -mixture of narrative and comment, all things being equal in interest -(or the lack of it)--"Just fancy, the verger's son is married, and -only eighteen! Did I tell you that Betsy, the new cat, had four -kittens in the kitchen drawer? Your pa is very well, but the other day -I had to go to the dentist and he made a face over the bill, and I -said 'I am your wife. You have to keep me in repair.' He looked so -surprised and I was surprised at myself. Was it not a fool thing to -say? Frederic is working very hard, but Serge is making a dreadful -litter in his room with his brushes and paint. I do hate _untidiness_ -and _shiftlessness_. You will be quite a stranger here when you come. -Mary is getting on very well with her music-lessons. She plays the -viola now, not the violin. It is easier to get into an orchestra if -you play the viola. I hope you are doing your duty, &c., &c. . . ." -The letter always wound up with a common form parental sermon, which -Annette always skipped. She did not get many letters, and her mother's -regular epistles were a boon to her. She was dreadfully afraid of the -servants at High Beck, and letters gave her a feeling of security -against them, for they witnessed to the fact that she had ties with -the world outside. Occasionally, when Mrs. Folyat mounted her -gentility hobby-horse, she would leave her letters lying open in her -room in the certain knowledge that they would be read and discussed -below stairs. - -She had never seen Serge, for she was born after his departure from -St. Withans, but he had always been far more real to her than her -other brothers and sisters. He was a romantic figure to her, and when -he cropped up again in her mother's letters she imagined him to -herself as a being handsome beyond all other men and brave and strong. -She used to regale her pupil with tales of his adventures, borrowing -from Scott or Thackeray when her own invention gave out, and she made -him so entrancing that her pupil announced her intention of marrying -him when she grew up. She had first of all imagined him richer than -anybody had ever been, but after a letter from Minna--a poor -correspondent with excellent descriptive powers--telling of Serge's -homecoming she then imagined him poorer than anybody had ever been, -and she invented a lady with boundless wealth who should marry him, -restore the family fortunes, and take her (Annette) away from -teaching. - -On the whole Annette had little cause to complain. Her employers were -stupid but not malicious. It never occurred to them that she might -need a change from the society of her pupil. Annette was so young in -years--younger still in mind--that they regarded her rather as a -companion than as an instructress, and lost all idea of authority, so -that Deedy, the child, was always playing her parents off against her -governess. Annette used to weep many tears over her ineffectuality, -but then, having a sense of humour, she would laugh at the idea of -herself, who had never successfully learned anything, being paid to -instruct another child in French, English grammar, orthography, -arithmetic and algebra. She grew fond of Deedy, and Deedy's parents -were affectionate with her, as, being kindly people, they would have -been with any strange child staying in their house. They led a very -quiet life in Westmoreland. Young people hardly ever came to stay with -them, and their house was conducted with the regularity of Mr. -Fender's office. Prayers were read by Mr. Fender at eight to the four -servants on one side of the room and Annette on the other. Breakfast -was at half-past. Lessons were from ten till one. Deedy had to be -taken for a walk in the afternoon, generally up the beck, for she had -a pool where dwelt a fairy and a hippogriff (inventions of Annette's) -and loved to send written messages to them over the little waterfall. -At six Deedy was taken to see her mother in the drawing-room, and -Annette had a free hour. At seven Deedy was put to bed, and the rest -of the day was Annette's unless she were desired to play to Mrs. -Fender in the evening. - -It was a dull life, but it left much time for dreaming, and sometimes -Deedy was very amusing. She had an eager prying curiosity and was much -interested in God. - -"What's an only begotten son?" she asked one day. - -"It means the only one." - -"Am I only begotten?" - -"Yes." - -She thought for a very long time. Then: - -"Why didn't God get another one?" - -"Oh, Deedy. Hush!" - -"Why do you always say 'Hush' when I ask questions?" - -Annette laughed. - -"Because I don't know the answer." - -"Does anybody know? Does your father know?" - -"Yes." - -"How does he know?" - -"Because he's a clergyman." - -"Doesn't my father know?" - -"Perhaps he does." - -"I wish I wasn't only begotten." - -"I don't think it makes much difference." - -"I wish I had a brother like Serge." - -"I've never seen Serge, so, you see, it doesn't really make much -difference." - -"You've never been only begotten, so you don't know, Miss Folyat." - -Annette left it at that. She never knew what Deedy was thinking. She -hardly knew what she thought herself, and her notions of other people -were axiomatic, based on uncritical acceptance of her mother's -assumptions. She regarded herself as a very ordinary person--(at -school she had thought herself neither above nor below the general run -of girls, and had done the things they did, and talked of the things -they talked of, very largely because they did them and talked of -them). She felt a little resentfully that Deedy was an extraordinary -person, but put it down to her deformity and pitied her. Being very -active herself she could imagine no greater misfortune, except perhaps -being deaf, like Beethoven, than to be unable to run and jump and -swim. She loved swimming, and every morning would go up the beck to -Deedy's pool and plunge into the cold water or sit under the little -waterfall. And then she would lie in the soft grass and rub her body -over with crushed flowers, and laugh for the joy and freedom of it -all. And she would come back with her hair lank and wet--there was -very little of it, and that thin in texture--and wake Deedy and tell -her how the morning was full of song. . . . Often when they sat by the -pool in the evening the child would make her talk about the water and -how it felt when it kissed her body, and one day Deedy said: - -"Swim now." - -It was a very hot August day, and Annette had been narrating an -adventure of Serge, based on the works of Edward S. Ellis, how he had -swum two hundred yards Under water in an American river and surprised -and captured an Indian spy. The description of under-water had been -singularly vivid, and the beck was in mid-flood and very clamorous. -Annette slipped out of her clothes and dived into the pool and lay -there floating, her eyes closed and her hair floating out and her -white body shimmering mysteriously through the water. Deedy crawled to -the edge of the pool and looked down. - -"Don't lie still. Swim!" - -Annette kicked up a white spume of water and Deedy clapped her hands. - -"Now work your arms!" - -Annette swam swiftly to the waterfall and sat under it and played with -the water with her hands. Then she dived again into the pool and -brought up a round pebble which she gave to Deedy as a present from -the hippogriff. Deedy flung it back into the water. - -"Why, Deedy, you're crying!" - -"I hate you. You're ugly." - -Annette became conscious that the child was staring at her body. She -blushed, hastily snatched up her clothes and ran away behind an -elder-bush. All her joy had vanished and her thoughts were filled with -the whisperings of the little girls at the school in Edinburgh. It was -part of the delight of her life here in Westmoreland that all such -griminess had been left behind. She was so hurt in the sudden loss of -her joy that she could not think nor make any effort to understand. -All her thought was to get away as quickly as possible, to get away -from Deedy. She dressed rapidly, wound up her hair, wet as it was, and -in absolute silence hurried home with Deedy. - -In the house she found two letters waiting her, one from her mother, -one from Minna, both announcing the same thing, Gertrude's engagement -to Bennett Lawrie. Mrs. Folyat wrote: - -"My dear, he is a very earnest and worthy young man and he simply -adores Gertrude. He is in business in a very large firm. He is a -gentleman. His grandfather was a Scotch minister, and his grandmother -was the daughter of a laird. Gertrude is very happy. They fell in love -over some theatricals they did in the school-room. Everybody said he -was much better than any professional. Frederic brought him to the -house. Frederic has such nice friends. Your father has built a -greenhouse out in the back garden. The engagement is not to be -announced for a year as it will be some time before they can afford to -marry. I hope you are attending to your duties and giving all -satisfaction to dear Mrs. Fender . . . - -Minna wrote: - -"Dear Annette. Fancy! Mother Bub is engaged, and Mottle-tooth is green -with envy. He is like a shorn lamb, and Mother Bub will eat him cutlet -by cutlet, with little paper frills round them. He's a clerk in an -office and his father's a drunkard, and when he stays too late an old -Scotch servant comes and fetches him away. He's about thirty-nine -years younger than Bub, but she couldn't face the thirties--or is it -the forties? Serge is very funny about it. Ma is very excited and -romantical. Pa hasn't said a word, and I'm not sure even that he -knows. I rather like the Lamb, myself, and he _is_ rather beautiful. I -suppose if Bub goes off and Mottle-tooth and me, there'll be room for -you at home. Someone will have to look after Ma . . ." - -Minna's flippancy rather offended Annette. Hardly having been at home -for so many years she had many delightful fictions about the house in -Fern Square. She regarded its inmates as a united and happy family, -and herself as the only outcast. It was Home to her, and she enveloped -it with all the unreal emotions roused in vast audiences by Madame -Patti with her rendering of the famous song. She was touched by the -very thought of love and pictured Gertrude radiant and all the house -glowing with the happiness of this new event. The poverty of the young -man only made it all the more delightful. The first play she had ever -seen was _Caste_, and she often cried when she thought of it. It -seemed enviable to her to have Eccles for a father-in-law. - -All this made her forget her unhappiness by the water, and she forgot -Deedy's prying stare and lived through the next few days in a dream of -young love. - -On the third day she had a rude awakening. After dinner in the evening -she sat playing to Mrs. Fender. Mr. Fender came in and whispered to -Mrs. Fender for some time, perhaps half an hour. Then he went out. -Mrs. Fender sat silent for some moments, then she said. - -"Miss Folyat!" - -Annette stopped playing. Mrs. Fender was sitting bolt upright in her -chair by the hearth, with a book on her knees. It was a brown -book--"Enquire Within Upon Everything." There was a peculiar asperity -in her voice and her whole manner was big with disapprobation. She -looked very like the Red Queen as she opened her mouth square and said -again: - -"Miss Folyat! Come here!" - -Annette rose and went to her. - -"Sit down!" - -Annette sat down. Mrs. Fender screwed herself up to a cold anger and -went on: - -"I am sorry for your father's sake and your mother's." - -Annette's heart went down into the pit of her stomach and then up into -her throat. - -"I must ask you," said Mrs. Fender, "to pack up your trunks this -evening and to be ready to catch the first train in the morning. I -repeat that I am sorry, but it is necessary." - -Annette's brain reeled. She blurted out: - -"What is it! What have I done!" - -"Done? What have you done? You can ask that? Miss Folyat!" - -"I'll go, of course. But tell me what it is that I've done. I haven't -stolen anything or--or . . ." - -"I cannot tell you what it is. It pains me too deeply to think of it. -You--you have polluted the mind of my child who was entrusted to your -care." - -Annette understood. Deedy had been asking questions. She had been -cross-examined, and the gentle art of making mountains out of -molehills had been called into play. This sudden presentation of a new -aspect of her escapade in swimming in the pool bewildered and crushed -her. She could make nothing of it, could hardly grasp what was in the -Red Queenish mind, and felt only the futility of saying anything. - -"You will pack up your things to-night and be ready to catch the first -train in the morning." - -"Certainly." - -"Have you no words of regret?" - -"No." - -Annette had no words of any sort. She only wanted to get away, only to -get away and cry. - -"I have written to your mother," said Mrs. Fender. - -"Oh!" Annette gasped and she thought: "How mean! How mean! She will -make mother think just the same as she does." - -She rushed out of the room, upstairs, and flung herself on her bed and -cried. She went on crying until she fell asleep and did not wake again -until the early morning. It was raining, and she felt very miserable -and began to cry again. She wept all through breakfast, wept as Mrs. -Fender put money into her hand and gave her a frigid farewell. She -wept because she did not see Deedy, and she wept because she did not -want to see Deedy. She wept because she was leaving the beautiful hill -and the beloved beck. She wept in the carriage all along the five -miles to the station, and the rain came pouring down. The clouds were -low on the fells. They almost seemed to reach the water of the lakes. -All down the fells were little silver streams, and the water ran and -trickled all over the roads. The light was dull and grey. The colour -seemed to be washed out of everything. The lakes were black, and dour -figures walked the roads. - -In the train she had a compartment to herself and she wept until she -could weep no more, and then miserably she looked out of the window at -the miserable country, drenched and drowned. Soon she came to the sea, -and that was so dismal that her sorrow overflowed and nothing but -absurd laughter was left, and she laughed, and suddenly her thoughts -woke again, and she said to herself that she was going home. Serge was -at home, and a lot of people, and they had jolly fun together, and -they were all happy because Gertrude was engaged, and because they -were all happy no one would be unkind to her. - -Blacker and blacker grew the skies as the train rolled southward, and -the ascending smoke of thousands of chimneys met the downpouring rain. -The smoke meant home to Annette, and she was glad of it. It was rather -fun to be sent home suddenly like this. It was like the time when -there had been measles at school and she had been sent home in the -middle of term. - -Soon between one town and another there was no country, no green save -that of a football field here and there. Everywhere chimney stacks and -the derricks of collieries, and great sidings full of trucks, and -miles and miles of wet slate roofs, with here and there a dark church -steeple or tower. At last she saw the tower of the Collegiate Church. -The rain had ceased. A watery smoky sunbeam stole through the clouds -to welcome her. - -Her father was at the station to meet her. She threw her arms round -his neck and hugged him. He kissed her warmly and said: - -"Dear, dear. What a young woman you have grown!" - -It came on to rain again, and in the four-wheeled cab Francis peered -out of the window and said: - -"It was like this when we came here from St. Withans." - -"How is Ma?" asked Annette with sudden trepidation. - -"It has been a great shock to her," said Francis, "and she has been -very unhappy about it. We have agreed to say nothing to the others and -to pretend that the little Fender girl is ill." - -Annette was immensely relieved. She had been most alarmed at the -thought of what Minna would say. She wanted reassuring, and she asked -her father again: - -"Are you angry with me?" - -"I? No, no, my dear. Angry! What's the use? Perhaps you'll be happier -at home." - -"I think I will. I didn't do anything really. I only bathed without -any clothes on." - -"It is not a usual practice with governesses." - -"I expect I ought never to have been a governess. I often used to feel -much younger than Deedy." - -"There's something in that, something in that. None of you seem to be -properly grown up. I don't know what will happen to you all. . . . I -expect your mother will talk to you about your ingratitude and -wickedness. She and I don't agree about it." - -They reached Fern Square. Mrs. Folyat had taken to her bed to nurse -her grief, and also by way of impressing Annette with the awfulness of -the thing she had done. Annette went up to her and endured an hour's -tearful homily on the sinfulness of the flesh. She sat by her mother's -bedside with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, and thought -comically of Mrs. Fender reading "Enquire Within" and discovering from -its pages how to treat wicked governesses. - -On the way down the dark stairs she met a man with a beard whom she -did not know. - -"Hullo!" he said. "Who are you?" - -"Annette." - -He kissed her. - -"I'm Serge. They didn't tell me you were coming home. Anything wrong?" - -"I've lost my place." - -"Did you like it?" - -"Not much." - -"Then it doesn't matter." - -"Mother's terribly upset about it." - -"That doesn't matter. She's always upset. We are a queer lot, and she -hasn't the ghost of a notion how to handle us. She's baffled because -we're not like people out of a novelette, angels engaged in dodging -the wickedness of a horrid world." - -Annette's own view of things was rather like that. She had always -believed it to be her duty to keep herself unspotted by things -temporal, though she had no idea how to set about it. Her mother had -said many unjust and unfair things to her. She was feeling rather -resentful and was pleased with the audacity of Serge's criticism. All -her upbringing had been based on the sanctity of parental authority -and the parental person, and she was fearful and fascinated by such -defiance of it. - -"Come up to my room," said Serge, "and let's have a look at you, and -you can tell me about yourself--if you want to." - -He took her arm and led her upstairs to the top of the house, where he -had a room under a north skylight which served him as bed-room, -sanctum, and studio. It was a litter of paper, boots, drawing-boards, -drawings, pipes, and cigar-boxes. He put on an old dressing-gown, lit -a pipe, and made Annette sit on the bed, and stood and looked at her. -She felt very happy and smiled at him. - -"You've got the most interesting face of the lot," he said presently, -"though that isn't saying much. What's brought you home?" - -She told him the whole story. - -"I see. Poisoning the little beast's mind with the sight of your body. -I see. It's part of the game to pretend that you haven't got such a -thing. Sorry, but I find it quite impossible." - -Annette's traditional modesty twinged, and she shifted a little -uneasily on the bed. Serge marked that and went on: - -"Sorry. I won't talk about it if it makes you uneasy. You believe in -souls and bodies separate, the soul prisoned in the vile clay, and all -that. I don't. I believe that the two things are one and indivisible. -If you don't believe that, you are apt to take all the surface -happenings of life much too seriously, and you lose all sense of -proportion and humour and make the most ridiculous messes for yourself -and everybody connected with you. Superficially considered, I am a bad -egg, so are you. I'm getting on towards middle-age and can't make my -own living, much less prevent other people making theirs, which is -what success seems to mean in commercial life. As for you, you've been -thrown out of your situation without a character, and it will be -extremely difficult for you to find another. Looked at a little more -closely and searchingly we are seen to be two wonderful people--all -people are wonderful--with immense potentialities for happiness or -unhappiness. Does all this bore you?" - -"No. Please." - -"What I'm really trying to get at is that there are only two kinds of -people--the people to whom everything that happens is experience, and -the people who turn everything that happens to them into a form of -self-indulgence, even the most horrible, even the most painful things. -Our father is the first kind of person, our mother is the second. Our -father was really shattered by the death of our brother James. Our -mother has been feeding herself fat on it ever since. Any love that -they may have shared was buried in the grave with James. More briefly, -the two kinds of people are those who can love and those who cannot. -Gertrude is besotted about young Lawrie, but she is quite incapable of -loving him. Minna could love a certain kind of man, one who could -swamp her mockery with love. There aren't many of them." - -Annette sat listening to him open-mouthed. He took paper and charcoal -and did a rough sketch of her, but did not show it her. - -"I like that story," he said. "It's the most satisfactory reason I -ever heard for getting thrown out of a governess' job. You can't live -in a house like this, or a place like this, and live without trouble. -You have to fight for your life, or lose it. I'm going to work now. -Get out. Go and make Minna talk about Bennett Lawrie. She's amusing." - -"Thank you," said Annette. - - - -IMBROGLIO - -_Quisque suos patimer manes._ - AENEID, vi. - -ANNETTE was soon absorbed into the household. Mrs. Folyat never could -keep any information to herself, and Gertrude and Mary quickly made -Annette feel that she was in disgrace and saddled her with their -domestic duties. Mary devoted herself entirely to music, rehearsing -for concerts, and practising with amateur quartettes, and Gertrude -gave all her time to her betrothed. She met him every day at his -office and walked home with him, unless they were going to the -theatre. Then they would dine out, Bennett having gone without his -mid-day meal in order to have money enough. They had the whole of -Sunday together always. He would accompany her to early celebration at -St. Paul's, breakfast at Fern Square, go to St. Saviour's morning and -evening, and spend the afternoon in the Park, for she had given up her -Sunday-school class. - -Their engagement was not yet announced, and he had not told his -family, nor had Gertrude met any of his relations. Bennett's face had -grown more and more melancholy, and Gertrude had not spoken to Minna -for weeks because, whenever she brought her lover to the house, Minna -persisted in singing: - - The pain that is all but a pleasure we'll change - For the pleasure that's all but pain, - And never, oh, never this heart will range - From that old, old love again. - -Annette thought Bennett very handsome, and she was greatly impressed -by his silence and tragic mien. She told herself that he must be -enormously in love with Gertrude since his emotions weighed upon him -so heavily, and she thought Minna odious for making fun of him. She -was very happy herself. She liked doing the housework and being useful -to the others, and though her mother and sister were rather tyrannical -with her, she had discovered a warm corner in her father's heart in -which to take refuge. Indeed her return had made a great difference to -Francis. He sought her company and talked intimately with her and -teased her, and showed her a side of himself that was hidden from the -others. He would take her for long walks, and to see the queer -characters among his poor, and often he would ask her to sit with him -in his study while he was working. Sometimes, instead of working he -would read aloud to her--Fielding, or Sterne, or the poets, and he -would make translations of Italian or French poems, or the odes of -Horace for her, and he would tell her that she was being much more use -to the world teaching him, who was old enough to learn, than wasting -time and her employer's money in pretending to instruct little girls. - -Except with her father and occasionally with Serge Annette never went -out and knew nothing of what was happening in the town, and had even -no clear idea of its geography. She gave no thought to past or future, -and was quite content to go on living in the tranquil present. She -reverted to her childish belief that her father was the most wonderful -man in the world, with Serge a good second, and if she could have -spent her life in ministering to them both she would have been more -than satisfied. She was rather afraid and shy of other women, but the -helplessness of men appealed to her, and she loved repairing their -garments, always so sadly in need of it, and she would darn socks that -any other woman would have thrown away. Nobody praised her, and nobody -took much account of what she did save only the one little servant, -Ada, who adored her. - -To Annette the most mysterious and awful person in the house was her -brother Frederic. She could make nothing of him. He looked very pale -and unwell, but became peevish under any comment on his appearance, -however sympathetic. He was for the most part very silent when he was -at home, though that was not often, but suddenly he would break into -the wildest spirits and chatter and talk nonsense and laugh a great -deal, and make fun of his mother and then be very affectionate with -her, and it would seem that of all her children Frederic had the most -affection from his mother. He would flatter her and talk about the -great riches he was going to make and the wonderful lady he was going -to marry, the daughter of a rich client, of whose estate he would be -appointed trustee--when he had his own office. That was always the -proviso--when he had his own office, and Annette was given to -understand that it would be very soon, and then if there was one man -more important than any other in the town, that man would be Frederic. -Mrs. Folyat would listen excitedly to all this and shake her ringlets, -and say to him: - -"My dear, my dear, you must look after the girls." - -"Of course," Frederic would respond, "rich husbands all round." - -"But they must be gentlemen." - -"Gentlemen! Of course." - -And if Minna were there, she would say with honey and gall in her -voice: - -"Is Bennett Lawrie a gentleman?" - -Mrs. Folyat would say, frigidly: - -"He is very poor, but he is extremely well connected." - -Frederic would swagger a little, and say: - -"After all, you know, it was I who brought him to the house." - -Then Minna: - -"We all know that all Frederic's friends are gentlemen--and ladies." - -It took Annette a little time to pick up the threads of all the family -jokes and allusions, and to disentangle the personalities of the -various outlying characters who were used for purposes of fun or -bickering, or, occasionally, as a weapon to enforce silence. Not all -of these personages came to the house, and some of them seemed only to -have a shadowy existence in the family consciousness. There were two -or three mysterious and almost mythical young men associated with -Minna. Mary's personality seemed to be filled out with a vague widower -of mature years, who made mincing machines and was said to propose to -her once a fortnight, Gertrude was altogether submerged in Bennett -Lawrie, while, whenever Frederic became too obstreperous or offensive -it was enough to breathe the name "Annie" to reduce him to a laconic -moroseness. This Annie was the more real of all these extra-familiar -characters, and Annette was very curious about her. She kept cropping -up at the most out of the way moments, as every member of the family -found it necessary at one time or another to remind Frederic of her -existence. She was never given any surname, nor, apparently, was it -known where she lived or how, or what she was to Frederic, or Frederic -to her. Annette associated her absurdly with Sister Anne in -_Bluebeard_, and from that again jumped to the cloud which was no -bigger than a man's hand. For no reason at all she regarded Annie as a -figure of disaster and was vaguely sorry for her and pitied her. Her -pity became concrete one day when an accident brought her nearer to -Annie and gave her the whole story. - -The lining of Frederic's office coat had worn to tatters. Going over -his wardrobe Annette discovered this and took the coat into Serge's -room, which she used when Serge was away at the Art School, and began -to mend it. When she had repaired the lining she turned out the -pockets, and among other papers--a theatre programme, two -pawn-tickets, and a race-card--came on a grubby blotted letter written -on cheap notepaper in a large wavering scrawl. Rather idly at first, -and with no qualms or scruples--(all families read all letters that -come into their hands)--she read it. There was neither address nor -date. It was very short. - - -"DEAR FRED.--You must answer my letter, you must, you must. What am I -to do? I can't prevent mother finding out soon, and she can't bear any -more, she has had so much to bear. I can't tell her it's you, but it's -the thinking I can't stand when you don't write to me. If you could -only get me away somewhere, like you said you would. I'm just the -same, but I can't write like I used to. It's the work in the house -that's so awful, with the lodgers being beastly. Dear Fred, do please -write to your - ANNIE." - - -At first it conveyed nothing to Annette. She was conscious of -suffering behind the words and rather stupidly fumbled about in her -mind for what it was that Annie's mother must find out soon. Abruptly -she came to it and dropped the letter, and hot tears came to her eyes, -tears of shame. She had never come face to face with this thing -before, and it horrified her, but through the horror of it was the -knowledge that Annie was wanting Frederic to write to her, and she -thought that she must find Frederic at once and tell him. Then she -remembered that she ought not to have read the letter, and she thrust -it back into the pocket of the coat and hurried back with it into -Frederic's room. That done, she went downstairs, saying to herself: - -"I wish I didn't know. I wish I didn't know." - -With sudden self-criticism, half humorously, she added: - -"But I do know, so it isn't any good wishing. I mustn't tell. I -mustn't tell." - -Her heart was fluttering as she entered the drawing-room, feeling that -everybody must know the secret she had discovered. She was surprised -to find her mother in her usual chair nodding over her book and Minna -talking in the window-seat with a young gentleman, whom she introduced -as Mr. Basil Haslam. - -"Mr. Haslam is a friend of Serge's," said Minna, "and Mr. Haslam's -brother is a great friend of Frederic's." - -"Perhaps he knows," thought Annette. - -But no. Basil Haslam bowed politely to Annette and took no further -notice of her, and went on with his conversation with Minna. Annette -went away and down to her father's study, and there she found Francis -and Bennett Lawrie in earnest conclave. Did they know? They gave no -sign. Francis was smoking, and tapping on the ground with his foot. -Bennett was leaning forward and talking emphatically and waving his -long hands rather wildly in the air. - -"I can do it," he said. "I know I can. I shall never do any good in -business. I must lead men. I must move them, lift them up, show them -the way to higher things." - -Annette stopped in the doorway, and said: - -"Am I in the way?" - -"Not at all," returned Francis. "Come in. Mr. Lawrie is being very -entertaining. We were discussing the possibility of his taking -Orders." - -"That would be lovely," said Annette. - -Bennett turned to her. - -"You think I could do it, don't you?" - -It was the first time he or any of the young men who came to the house -had spoken to her directly, and Annette felt curiously grateful to -him. She stammered: - -"I . . . I'm sure you . . . you could." - -"It's what I've wanted to do all my life, only I've always thought it -impossible. You'll laugh, I know, sir, but I used to preach sermons -when I was a boy, just to myself in my bed-room, and I made a little -altar when I was sixteen. I never dared talk about it at home. They -always laughed at me. I never dared tell them what I wanted to do. -They said I must go into an office when I was sixteen, and I went -there. . . . You know we, Gertrude and I, thought you would take me as -curate as soon as I was ordained, and then when I got a living we -could be married." - -"I'm much obliged to you for letting me know your plans, but it means -time and money. We could send you to a theological college, when -you're . . . How old are you?" - -"Nineteen," said Bennett, with a hot blush. - -"Nineteen. When you're twenty-one. The money is the difficulty. I have -very little." - -"My uncles are both rich men. I'm sure they would help if you would -speak for me, and tell them what you think." - -"Oh! do!" said Annette. - -Bennett darted a look of gratitude at her. - -"What I think!" Francis smiled. "You haven't given me much time yet. I -like you. I like your enthusiasm. I've no doubt you would make a good -clergyman, but it is a very poorly paid profession . . ." - -"That doesn't matter at all," cried Bennett. "It's the work that -matters." And he rushed off into a long tirade which Annette thought -very splendid, and Francis punctuated with thin blue puffs of smoke -from his pipe. - -"On the whole," said Francis, reflectively. "On the whole I think it -would be better when I meet your father to say nothing about your -relationship with my daughter." - -Bennett seemed to be on the point of protesting. Francis hurried on: - -"I take it seriously, I assure you. My daughter considers herself -engaged to you. She is old enough to know her own mind. On the other -hand, I don't think I can give you any official recognition until -there is some more immediate prospect of your being able to provide a -livelihood for the two of you." - -Bennett was embarrassed by all this, and his enthusiasm oozed away and -left him blank and expressionless. Fortunately--perhaps -deliberately--he had his profile towards Annette, and she found it -very beautiful. She had a queer feeling that her father was teasing -the young man, and she wanted to defend and help him. His ambition was -altogether laudable, and he was in love (so she believed); the two -things were interdependent and both must be promoted. Had it been in -her power she would have turned Bennett into a clergyman there and -then, and handed him over to Gertrude with her blessing. - -Gertrude came in just then and shattered Annette's bountiful altruism -of desire by saying: - -"You here!" - -And Annette, who had been inflated by her dreams for Bennett and his -fervency, felt at once like Cinderella, and she crept away to the -kitchen, taking in her mind the picture of Gertrude embracing her -father and Bennett shaking her father's hand. - -At once the whole scene became curiously remote, as remote as Minna -and Basil Haslam in the drawing-room, as remote as her mother nodding -foolishly to the buzz of their whispered conversation, as remote as -Deedy Fender and all her old life in Edinburgh and Westmoreland. Real -only to her then were the happy days of her childhood in Cornwall, and -joyous moments here and there--a wild scamper on Arthur's Seat; a long -swim in the Firth of Forth, an affectionate talk with a girl at -school, a word of praise from a mistress whom she had adored. Then, -like tripping over a stone, she came back to Annie. Annie who was in -sore trouble. Annie who wanted only a word from Frederic. . . . She -heard Serge's step in the hall, on the stairs, then his big voice -saluting Basil Haslam, and then the two of them go upstairs to the -studio-bedroom at the top of the house. She heard Gertrude and Bennett -come out of the study and go upstairs. They stopped on the landing, -and she heard them kiss. - -Ada, the servant, was out, and she looked round the kitchen and -thought how cosy it was, how much nicer, really, than any other room -in the house, except, perhaps, the study. Upstairs Serge laughed. No -one else in the house laughed--not like Serge. He was always so happy. -No one else was happy like that. Not her father, nor her mother, nor -Gertrude, even though Bennett Lawrie loved her so. . . . Bennett -Lawrie was a vivid figure to Annette. He was so intense, but he never -laughed. She felt that she would like to make him laugh. She began to -invent foolish jokes and antics that perhaps might make him laugh, and -was so busied with them that without her hearing him Frederic came -into the kitchen and stood above her. - -"Get me some supper," he said, "I'm devilish hungry." - -"Oh! You!" - -Annette lit the gas and stood staring at him with her hand above her -head, leaning on the gas-bracket. He looked very white and mean and -shrivelled, and the skin under his eyes was puffy. - -"What are you staring at?" he said. "I'm hungry." - -Annette put food in front of him, and he ate wolfishly. - -"I'm devilish hungry," he said. "I've been walking miles. I'm tired -and hungry. I've walked miles." - -"Did you go to see her?" It was out before she was aware. - -Frederic dropped his knife into his plate with a clatter. - -"What the devil do you mean? Who?" - -"Annie." - -Frederic gripped her wrist and jumped to his feet and thrust his face -close to hers. - -"For God's sake!" he said under his breath. "For God's sake! What do -you mean? Don't you blab. Don't you blab!" - -"You're hurting me." - -"What do you mean?" - -"I read her letter. It was in your coat. I was mending it. I didn't -mean to. Why don't you write to her." - -"What letter? I don't know any letter." - -"You do. She wants you to write to her." - -"I have written." - -"Go on with your supper, then." - -"You won't tell any one. Promise you won't tell any one." - -"No. All right. I won't tell any one." - -"You're a queer one, Annette. You don't seem to mind." - -"Mind!" - -Annette was astonished to find that she had got beyond being -distressed or shocked. She was hardly at all interested in Frederic's -state of mind or condition. She felt that something must be done, and -she wanted to know exactly what. Annie, whoever or whatever she might -be, was unhappy and something must be done to help her. Annette turned -to Frederic and said: - -"What are you going to do?" - -He replied: - -"What can I do? Don't look at me like that. I'm not so bad as all -that, I'm not." - -"But it is wicked." - -"I know it is, but you can't help it. I don't know. Everything seems -all wrong. You go along quite quietly for months and months, and then -suddenly everything's all wrong. It's queer to be talking to you like -this. You don't understand the least little bit, though you are such a -queer one. But I can talk to you just because you don't understand." - -"I do understand," said Annette. - -"How could you? You're only a little girl. Annie Lipsett--that's her -name. She's going to have a baby. I suppose I ought to marry her. Lots -of fellows do get married like that. I can't afford it. I don't love -her. That's what's so horrible. I don't love her, and I can't pretend -that I do, I can't make myself believe that I do. I was so beastly -miserable, that's what it was. Things go wrong, and they stay wrong, -and then you want something and clutch at it and miss it. Miss it all -the time. It wasn't just a beastly thing, I swear it wasn't. I was so -miserable, that's what it was. I'm miserable now, and the worst of it -all is that I'm enjoying it. That's the sort of brute I am." - -Annette found that she was crying. Large tears welled out of her eyes -and trickled down her cheeks into her mouth. The thing was closing in -on her from all sides and suffocating her. Her imagination was -baffled. She had thought herself bold, and suddenly she was out of her -depth. She struck out blindly, and presently found a footing on the -hard rock of conventional morality. From a suffering human being, -craving sympathy, Annie Lipsett became a wicked woman to be condemned -and shunned, a base creature who had enticed and enchained Frederic. -Her footing on this rock was very insecure. Soon she was swept off it -and flung hurtling down an empty sense of the treachery of her own -emotions. - -She heard Frederic saying again: - -"Don't you tell any one!" - -She muttered a reply. Frederic finished his supper and she removed his -plate and the empty dish into the scullery. Frederic followed her, She -trembled from head to foot, and longed only for him to leave her. He -stood plucking at the roller-towel on the door, and he said: - -"If any one did to you what I've done to her I should have to -horsewhip him. Isn't it odd? I should think it simply absurd if -anybody wanted to horsewhip me." - -Annette had a sudden gust of rage and through her clenched teeth she -threw at him: - -"If you don't go away I'll smash a plate in your face." - -Frederic laughed nervously. - -"You are a queer one," he said. "But we're a queer family, and this is -a queer house, isn't it?" - -Annette rushed by him, all her nerves tingling and throbbing, and flew -upstairs until she came to Serge's room. There she stood gasping, and -presently broke out laughing and crying together. Serge gave her water -and slapped her hands, and motioned to Basil Haslam to leave the room. -Basil went and Annette clung to Serge and began to sob. Her laughter -ceased, and when she had done crying Serge laid her on the bed and sat -holding her hand for a long time, during which he forbade her to -speak. Her head began to ache furiously, and every little sound in the -house became explosive and a torment to her. Serge seemed to realise -that too, and began to talk to her in a low, soothing voice. He -described the bay at Cape Town as the ship heaves and throbs her way -out of it with the little fringe of lights on the water's-edge under -the mountain, and he told of long days at sea, the whole voyage home -to England, the most beautiful country in the world. Something he gave -her of what it had been to him to see green fields again and English -skies and orchards and red poppies in the corn, and little, -comfortable, cool English rivers. - -She hardly heard what he said. His voice lulled her, and his presence, -the pressure of his hand were infinitely soothing. Soon she fell -asleep, and while she slept he did not stir. - -She woke happy and smiled at him, peering through the darkness for his -kind eyes. She told him then, and because he said nothing she asked -him if he did not think it wicked. - -"Wicked!" he said. "There's good in it and bad too, just the same as -there is in everything and everybody. Their happiness has been theirs, -their folly has been theirs. Their unhappiness must be theirs too. You -and I can do nothing to alter it. We can only help Frederic if he -wants help. We can't help him if we make the blunder of applying an -abstract moral formula to what is to him a very concrete, actual, -human mess. Keep it to yourself, my dear. You will understand one -day." - - - -XIV - -WHITE BEARD AND GREY - -_Maggior dolore e ben la Ricordanza - O nell' amaro inferno amena stanza?_ - D. G. ROSSETTI - -FRANCIS had many moments of doubt as to the wisdom of encouraging and -abetting Bennett Lawrie in his desire to enter the Church. To begin -with he had no money; he was engaged--Francis supposed it must be -called an engagement--to Gertrude, and even supposing it were possible -to take the young man as curate as soon as he was ordained, that meant -at most eighty pounds a year, and he was already earning more than -that. Without influence the prospect of his being granted a living -was, to say the least of it, remote. To be sure the rector of St. -James, Irlam, had begun life as an itinerant violinist, but then he -had a fruity tenor voice which made him very popular with women; also -he had married a lady with a snug fortune. - -"One must," thought Francis, half apologising to himself. "One must -think of these things materially. If I had thought of it materially I -should never have. . ." - -He broke off the thought and began to tell himself that he ought to -encourage the young in high-souled endeavour. Young Lawrie was -certainly remarkable, talented, very much in earnest, and, as far as -one could see, very much in love. To be sure Gertrude was a good ten -years older than he, but that was no bad thing for a young man of an -ardent temperament. Certainly from Gertrude's point of view it was -better for her to be the wife of a clergyman than the wife of a clerk. -But ought one to let these social considerations weigh in the matter? -It was very difficult (thought Francis), very difficult. She would be -poor in any case. She might have a large family. She was a little -woman, rather plain, just the type that produces enormous families. -And families--could there be anything more harassing than to have a -large family and to have no means of making provision for them? - -On that Francis's reflections stopped. They went round and round. It -was his business to encourage the production of children (in wedlock), -and year in and year out he had faithfully fulfilled his duty, without -ever pausing to consider whether he had practised what he preached. -Now he saw that he had done so, and was shocked to find himself rather -dismayed at the result, and reluctant to face the possibility of his -daughter doing the same. For years he had hardly thought about his -work. Since the death of his son and the brutal outbreak that followed -it, hostilities had ceased (with the exception of an occasional -splutter at an Easter vestry meeting) and the work of his church, like -his domestic life, had run on automatically. Time had hardly existed -for him. His thoughts from disuse had grown sluggish, and it was very -very slowly borne in upon him that his children were beginning to -claim a separate existence, and that they had every right to do so. -When he realised it he was forced painfully to face the fact that he -was impotent to help them either with money, or, what is more -precious, real sympathy. It was only with an effort that he was able -to set aside the grotesqueness of Gertrude's fancy and to force -himself to see it with her eyes and to take it seriously. He looked -back over the years and caught a glimpse of the wasted opportunities, -and though he never indulged in the luxury of self-torment he cried in -his heart: - -"God forbid that when they are as old as I they should be even as I -am." - -He was not sufficiently skilled in self-analysis to lay his finger on -the weakness that had brought him to such a pass. He thought no ill of -his wife. He knew enough of human nature to admit that nothing outside -a man's own soul could dishonour him or bring him to harm. -Unconsciously he was disloyal to the tenets of his calling in -considering his own case. With all others he professed that God moved -in a mysterious way and that everything happened for the best -according to God's providence. He had long since abandoned all belief -in the possibility of a noble collective life here on earth, for he -had seen too much not to know that when two or three are gathered -together it is not to seek God, but to promote knavery and jealousy. -Moments of agony he had had when he had half seen his own scepticism, -but the simple devotion of some of his parishioners, craftsmen, and -factory hands, and his own great liking for many of his poor had kept -him from throwing up his work, and he would say: - -"Though I do it ill, yet it might be done worse." - -Besides, he could not afford to renounce the stipend. Every year he -had made small inroads upon his capital, fifty pounds here and a -hundred there to satisfy creditors or sudden demands of charity for -larger sums than he could afford to pay out of income. - -Well, well--no doubt he was making a mountain out of a molehill, and -things were not nearly so bad as they seemed. The house had been much -jollier since Serge came back and Annette brought youth and joy into -it, and if none of the family seemed to be on the way to brilliant -lives, after all there were better things in the world than success, -and nothing mattered so much as affection and love. And yet, how small -a part love played in human life! How soon it died! - -In the end Francis laughed at himself, and told himself that thinking -was no use. It neither made good better nor bad worse. Things were -what they were and nothing would alter them. Young Lawrie, with his -brain stuffed full of illusions, wished to enter into Holy Orders. So -be it. He had promised to do all he could to help him: after all it -was something to find a young man with thoughts higher than the -pleasure next to hand, and the first step seemed to be to see his -father. - -So Francis Folyat wrote to James Lawrie in his awkward spidery -hand--(he could not bear writing letters)--and asked for an interview -in order to discuss with him the future of his son Bennett. - -James Lawrie replied courteously, appointing a day, and on it Francis -walked across Dale Park and over the new Cromwell Bridge and up the -shabby-genteel street from the river to the stucco Gothic house. - -Tibby opened the door to him and looked him up and down. - -"You'll be Mr. Folyat," she said. - -"That is my name." - -"Our Bennett's been a new lad since he went to your house, Mr. -Folyat." - -"I'm glad of that." - -"It's not all to the good," said Tibby, grumpily, and she turned and -led him down the long passage to the dining-room. - -She announced: - -"The Reverend Mr. Folyat to see you." - -James Lawrie was sitting at the table engrossed in a game of dominoes. -He looked up at Francis and nodded, and pointed with the stem of his -pipe to a chair on the other side of the table. Francis took it, and -Tibby left them. Old Lawrie rattled the dice and turned up a six and -three. He grunted: - -"Can't do it. H'm. H'm. Can't borrow again. No more credit. Will you -join me, sir?" - -"Gladly," said Francis, and they began to play. They played for an -hour in silence, and Francis won three times to his opponent's twice. - -"You'll be a college man, sir?" asked old Lawrie. - -"Dublin," said Francis, and helped himself to tobacco from the greasy -old pouch that lay on the table. - -"I've a great reverence for college men, having missed it myself. I -had two or three friends in Edinburgh, but I was never there except in -their letters. I've never been anywhere except in books, and wherever -I go, and whatever I do, and whatever I be, I think there's always the -printed page between me and myself. . . . Do you understand that?" - -"I don't think so." - -"It's like this. There's such a thing as a habit of loneliness, and if -it really fastens on a man there's nothing can break through it, not -love, not misery, not great joy, nor a wife and bairns, nothing. -Living like that, a man gets a clear brain like a searchlight so that -he can see all his comings out and his goings in and the play of his -thoughts, honest and dishonest, and he prowls about and about his own -self like a caged beast. Do you know that?" - -"Something like it." - -"Nine-tenths of us are condemned to it. My father was a minister up in -Galloway. A real hell-fire man he was, but he died of a consumption, -hell-fire being nothing against the mists of the place he lived in. -Several men from our glen, my uncles among them, had gone to England -and made money. They said it was easy, so I came down the first. I had -a head stuffed full of poetry and the Bible and Scots -righteousness--you need to be a Scot to know what that means--and for -years I was desperately lonely. Two of my brothers followed me. They -did well, as they call it. They made money and saved and saved, and -made more money. They both married rich women. I got lonelier and -lonelier, and more and more caught up in the trick of watching myself. -I lived with my mother for years. I married to get away from her, and -it was an awful day for the woman that married me. I could not let her -in to me. . . . Can you make anything of that? You're a younger man -than I am. Can you make anything of that? I'm an old white-bearded -sinner, and if all my life was to be written they'd say it was an -awful tragedy. But it isn't that. It's a fool's comedy. There's no -tragedy save in a strong man who can put up a fight against his own -weakness. Men like me, and that's most of us, waste our lives in -fighting against our own strength. Oh! I tell you there's many a thing -a man thinks of in his loneliness, but it's all thought, thought, -thought; it never grows into action. One thing a man realises pretty -quickly, and that is that there is nothing wrong with the world except -the monstrous egoism of men and women. It is easy to realise but -almost impossible to fight against. All along the line we refuse to -accept the laws and principles that govern the universe because they -are so little flattering to our precious vanity. We make laws against -nature, organise ourselves into churches or states and nations against -her, invent trumpery codes of morality in the blind hope of cheating -her. From generation to generation it is one long wasteful and -pitifully vain struggle against nature. . . . Look at the result. Look -at the places we live in. Look at what we call society. Why we haven't -even devised any method of insuring that every man and every woman -shall have the bare necessaries of life; in thousands of years we -haven't learned to contrive that civilisation shall give the majority -of men greater comfort and happiness than they can find in barbarism. -We've tried this game of civilisation over and over again, but we have -never got beyond the most stupid materialism. You can almost count the -really civilised men--men who have been masters of life and lived it -at all points and enriched it for all those with whom they came in -contact--on two hands. The rest of us are caught up by the habit of -loneliness, and we are prisoners all our lives. I know. I don't give a -brass farthing for material success or failure. I know the bitterness -of spiritual failure. You want to talk to me about my son. I know -nothing of him. He knows nothing of me. That is my fault, not his. -Now, what have you to say?" - -"This is all very interesting," replied Francis, rather at a loss -where to begin. "My eldest son would discuss the merits and demerits -of civilisation with you better than I, and certainly with more warmth -than I can bring to bear on the subject." - -He had an uncomfortable feeling that he entirely agreed with old -Lawrie, and an equally uncomfortable sense that he would agree also -with the opposite side if it were presented, and suddenly candour made -him say so. Lawrie chuckled and rode off on his crotchet of loneliness -again: - -"That is so. That is so. Because of the habit of loneliness there -cannot be unity among men. What men think is of no importance, because -it has so little relation to what they do or what they are. The -opinion of any body of men, even the most intelligent, is generally -only the lowest common multiple of their prejudices. Theories are -quite useless, so are opinions. When a man is in possession of the -truth he acts. When he is not he theorises, or cowers behind his -prejudicies, which amounts to the same thing. Look at the people in -this town. How many of them are capable of action, how many are there -whose days are not spent in superficial employments, first to get -bread, and second to escape boredom when their work is done. They -muddle through their work, they make a great deal of money for a few -people who have no idea what to do with it when they have got it, and, -since they are in an intolerable position, they have nothing to -support them, and the monstrous system they have drifted into -creating, but a hard, conceited pride. That makes them blinder than -ever. They can do nothing to make their city beautiful, nothing to -remedy the shiftless blundering of their fathers, nothing in the way -of art to make amends to the people whose lives they have cramped and -ruined in their factories and slums. Their only notion is to get more -and more money out of them." - -"I never thought of it like that," rejoined Francis. "All the people I -meet seem to be very pleasant." - -"They don't know they're doing it. They follow their own little rules -of expedience and call them the unchanging laws of God. Your Pharisee -always imagines he has made things all right by taking God's name in -vain, vain indeed, for they beget nothing but vanity. I'm just as bad -as they, for I've sold my three sons to them for a wage that begins at -ten shillings a week and, in the course of thirty years, will grow -into a salary of three hundred pounds a year." - -"I have worked for thirty years and more for very little more than -that." - -"Aye, but you believe that you are working in a holy cause, so that -the work itself is enough, and you're content while you can pay your -way. All work ought to be in a holy cause and done in a holy spirit. -. . . I used to think that when I was a young man. I used to feel it -too. I think so now, but I don't feel it any more. These things just -go on, and I sit and watch them and do nothing, and I understand why -everyone else does nothing either. It's the old men who profit by it -all and the young men are never wise enough to overturn it, and they -could so easily by refusing to step into the old men's shoes. But we -must all grow old." - -"The youngest time in all my life," said Francis, "was during the -years after I first came here, when I had to fight to do things in my -own way in my own church." - -"Exactly," said old Lawrie. "That's it. The fighting; the fighting to -do things in your own way, in your own life; if you can do it, if you -can keep it up, and hold out to the very end." - -Francis pounced on that as an opportunity of coming to his mission, -and he set forth all that he had to say about Bennett. - -Old Lawrie received it in blank astonishment. - -"Well, well," he said. "Wants to be a parson, does he? Is it the -clothes he's after? He was always a great one for dressing up." - -"I think it is more serious with him than that. I think it is very -serious." - -Old Lawrie thought for a long time and tugged at his beard, while -Francis gazed at him and said to himself what a fine face the old -fellow had. - -"Do you mind," said the old man at length, "do you mind if I read you -some poetry?" He took up a scrapbook and put spectacles on his -beak-like nose and read in a great voice: - - _Two shepherds on the windy fell - Sat crackin' in the peep o' day. - They heard the tolling o' the bell - That marked a soul had passed away._ - - _And white beard to old grey beard said, - "Another soul has passed away." - But old grey beard this answer made, - "The night is flowering into day."_ - - _"Nay, nay," said white beard, "that's not true, - Tis day that's sinking into night." - "Night into day!"--and high words flew. - They cursed and swore with all their might._ - - _They argued on that windy fell - And came to blows. . . . The twilight sped. - The distant tolling of the bell - Told the great sun a man was dead._ - -That was the end of the poem. - -Francis said: - -"Did you write that yourself?" - -"I did. I wrote that myself. . . . You wish me to say will I or will I -not let my son Bennett go for a parson. Have you a mind for irony? -There's irony in this. In the first place I have no money. In the -second I cannot say 'Yes' or 'No' to that or any other thing in this -house. You must see the boy's mother. I'll send you to her with a -note. . . . What are you staring at, man? Have you never seen a -prisoner before? When you live in a prison you comply with the -regulations. . . . Do you see that scar on my forehead? My eldest son -did that when he was a boy of twelve. He's a man now and speaks to me -once a month. He comes in here and stands by the door, and he says -'How are you, father?' And I say 'I'm very well,' and then he goes -away. He's a man now, and, let me tell you, he has a bath every -morning." - -He had worked himself up to a great state of excitement, and Francis -sat gaping at him like a child at a theatre. Old Lawrie went to the -door and bawled: - -"Tibby!" - -The gaunt old Scotswoman came in, treading noiselessly, like a ghost, -and stood (thought Francis) like a gaoleress waiting orders from the -chieftain of a Border clan. - -Old Lawrie sat at table and wrote a note on a very dirty piece of -paper, folded it up into a cocked hat, and with great care wrote on it -in a neat, impersonal copperplate hand, "Mrs. James Lawrie." He gave -it to Tibby and commanded her to take it and Mr. Folyat to Mrs. Lawrie -in the drawing-room. He shook Francis warmly by the hand, thanked him -for listening to him so patiently and bowed with extraordinary -dignity. Francis followed Tibby, feeling, as he said afterwards, like -a captive in a strange land. It was very dark in the passage, and, -like the night in Jorrocks, it smelled of cheese. At the drawing-room -door Tibby whispered to him: - -"Will you wait? She may be asleep." - -She pushed the door open stealthily and two cats darted out, and, on -seeing Francis, rushed away, one upstairs, the other to the end of the -passage, and they both sat rumbling like a kettle on the boil. Tibby -moved noiselessly into the room, then turned: - -"She's no asleep. Ye may come in." - -Francis followed her. Tibby planted herself in front of Mrs. Folyat, -gave her the note with this: - -"From the master." - -(If it had been from the Emperor of Russia she could not have put more -reverence into her voice.) - -"From the master. This is the gentleman." - -With that she materialised out of her ghostliness and stalked out of -the room, and Francis, on whom the humour of the whole household was -beginning to dawn, found himself inventing her report to the Master: - -"The prisoner has been boiled in oil, but made no confession." - -Mrs. James Lawrie was a large woman with a big face, surprisingly pink -and young looking. She had her hair oiled and parted in the middle and -surmounted with a tall lace cap adorned with pale-blue ribbons, and -skewered on with white china-headed hat-pins that clearly passed -through her head and came out on the other side. Her dress was very -tight, and seemed to be stretched to breaking-point in the effort to -hold in her flesh. From her attitude, certain details of her dress, -and a portrait on the wall, it was clear that she prided herself on -her resemblance to Queen Victoria, then alive and enjoying all the -lustre and celebrity of her Jubilee. - -There was another cat on the sofa by the fireplace. In the window was -a wire stand full of palms and india-rubber plants and maiden-hair -ferns. The windows were closed. The pictures were religious, or views -of various seaside resorts and spas, and five pastel drawings of -children, and everywhere, on tables, on the piano, on brackets, on the -mantelpiece, was a profusion of knick-knacks, cheap china, china -ladies, china babies, china shepherdesses, china stags, china birds, -and, on a table near where Francis was standing, among various Eastern -trivialities, a large elephant's tooth. - -Mrs. Lawrie read her husband's letter without giving any sign that she -was aware of her visitor. Then she said: - -"Sit down." - -She had a peculiar mouth that opened like a trap, the upper lip not -moving at all, and the lower dropping and springing back as though she -had not full control of it. It fascinated Francis so that he hardly -heard what she said: - -"You are a High Churchman, Mr. Folyat?" - -"Yes." - -"I was born a Baptist, Mr. Folyat. On my marriage I became a Low -Churchwoman. My husband is a Presbyterian." - -"Indeed." - -"Yes." - -Mrs. Lawrie's lip sprang back so violently that Francis began to think -grotesquely that she would never be able to open her mouth again. She -contrived it, however. She pressed her forefinger into the middle of -her cheek--(exactly like the portrait of Queen Victoria)--and went on: - -"Let me tell you, Mr. Folyat, that we are not rich. We are not rich, -Mr. Folyat, but I have my pride. Mr. Lawrie's relations have begged me -on their knees to allow them to educate my children. I have refused. -My children are the children of a poor man, they must do what the -children of the poor have to do. They must earn their living, and they -must be made safe. I believe in safety. My two eldest sons are in the -biggest and safest bank in the town, and, if they behave themselves, -they will be there all their lives. My youngest is in a very good -position in Messrs. Keith's warehouse, and he, too, if he behaves -himself, will be there for the rest of his life. My youngest son is -very foolish and volatile. I don't believe he knows his own mind. I -doubt very much whether he has a mind to know. I think it best that he -should stay where he is. I am glad to know that he has found friends -in your house and circle, Mr. Folyat. I do not call, or I would call -on Mrs. Folyat." - -"Mrs. Folyat would, I am sure, be . . ." Francis dropped the remark as -insincere. He added hastily, to cover it up: - -"The boy seemed to think that his uncles would help." - -"I do not allow Mr. Lawrie's brothers to interfere in my affairs in -any way." - -"Then . . ." - -"That is all, Mr. Folyat." - -Francis found himself forced to admiration of this woman. There was a -sort of finality about her. He told himself that she was like a very -large garden roller, a roller so heavy that no one man could move it. -He had a trick of nicknaming people--(Minna had inherited it)--and he -ticked her off in his mind as the garden-roller. When he had done -that, he found that she was talking about the weather and Mr. -Gladstone. When she had told him how she wept at the death of Charles -Dickens, Francis thought it time to go. Mrs. Lawrie chatted amiably as -she took him to the door, and she stood watching him as he walked down -the asphalt path to the little rustic-gate. He turned down towards the -bridge and took a long breath, and blew it out again. How good the sky -was! How good the air upon one's face! . . . He remembered old -Lawrie's verses: - - _The distant tolling of the bell - Told the great sun a man was dead. . . ._ - -What was dead? Old Lawrie? Hardly. The dead were surely not so mad as -that. The woman? "Dead as a doornail," said Francis, and he thought -with pity of Bennett Lawrie, young, ardent, groping for life, coming -back at night, tired from his dull work in his dull office, to that -house. - -Almost unconsciously he found himself comparing it with his own house -and wondering what that might be like for the young people in it--for -Minna, for Annette for Frederic. Not so bad as that, surely not so bad -as that. And yet . . . He would not admit to himself that all was not -well in his own house. - -"How strange," he thought. "How strange, to walk out of the street, an -ordinary street, into lives like that! One would never have imagined -it. . . . But the boy, Bennett; what's to become of the boy?" - - - -XV - -WALKING HOME - -_He that covereth a transgression seeketh love; but he that repeateth -a matter separateth very friends._ - PROVERBS XVII. - -YOU may walk out of a house and yet carry it with you, just as you may -cross the Channel and yet always take England with you among your -baggage. - -Francis carried James Lawrie's house with him on his back like a -snail's shell. He could not get the thought of Bennett out of his -head, and the thought of Bennett made him sensitive as he had never -been to the squalor through which he had to pass on the way home. -Everything in him was disturbed. His comfortable good-nature rather -than his religion had made him accept the world as good in essence, -and he had always done what he could to alleviate poverty and to -comfort distress when they had come knocking at his door, but moral -distress such as he had found in old Lawrie and divined in old -Lawrie's son he had never looked for and never seen. One thing only in -his life had so disturbed him, the episode, years and years ago, of -the murder in Potsham, but that he had not grasped so fully; it had -been so easy to conventionalise it, to watch the man be swallowed up -by the machinery of punishment and forget, to pass on to--what had he -passed on to? He was dismayed to find himself thinking of his wooing. -Even then he had not taken the trouble to understand what he was -doing; and the result? Would it have been different if he had taken -the trouble to understand? Old Lawrie seemed to take an immense amount -of trouble to understand, and look at the pass to which he had brought -himself. - -He passed the end of a dismal trough of a street--there were hundreds -like it in his parish--and the sight of it led him to the thought of -poverty. Perhaps, he told himself, perhaps his disasters and old -Lawrie's were due only to the fact that they were poor men, too poor -for the responsibilities of wife and children they had taken upon -themselves. . . . But that must be nonsense. There would soon be an -end of everything if the great processes of the world were to be -screwed down to the money standard, if . . . But that was too -difficult. He must see old Lawrie again. Quite obviously he must think -things out, but he was incapable of doing so alone, and admitted it to -himself. He liked walking and resented this intrusion of thought upon -his pleasure. He had been a fool and supposed that he must pay for his -folly, and only hoped that the price asked would not be more than he -could pay. He had a feeling that he was only at the beginning of some -stupendous change, and on the whole he was excited by it, until he -began to think, and then it all lay so far beyond his grasp that he -was depressed. One thing relieved him--the knowledge that he had no -regret for the fleshpots and the fat glebes of the two Cornish livings -of his early manhood. - -Then his thoughts took another turn. After all, what did it matter? He -did his work conscientiously, and nothing else was greatly his -concern. He was only interested in Bennett Lawrie in so far as he was -going to be Gertrude's husband. He had promised to see what could be -done towards making the young man a clergyman. He had fulfilled the -promise, but apparently nothing could be done. The garden roller had -passed over that aspiration and squeezed it out flat as a shadow. So -be it. Gertrude's husband would continue in commerce, take an active -though lay interest in Church matters, and probably be ten times more -prosperous, probably also a more satisfactory husband and father, than -if he were to take Orders. There was a great deal to be said for work -which took a man away all day and every day from his home, a good deal -from both sides. It needed a strong affection to withstand the strain -of full community of existence and interest. - -Finding himself beginning to think critically of marriage, Francis -brought himself up with a start. There had been a time when he had -given a great deal of thought to it, his thought had necessarily -driven him to attempted discussion with his wife, but on the first -hint of what was at the back of his mind she had cried scandal and -shame upon him and so scared and wounded him that he had never -returned to the subject. He had hoped to break down the wall that had -grown up between them, but she put up two bricks for every one he -removed. Did she know what she was doing? Did she suffer from it?--He -did not know. He would never know. She amused him. He told himself -that she was more like Mrs. Nickleby than he had conceived it possible -for a woman in real life to be. At any rate she was not hard, armoured -against even a joke, like Mrs. Lawrie. - -That brought him back to Bennett, and he had a gust of anger against -the young man--not a violent gust. Francis never could be violent in -anything. His anger turned on himself and twinged his conscience with -the realisation that he was giving more thought to Bennett and -Bennett's affairs than he had to any of his children. The point of it -all was the establishment of Bennett in a career superior to that -which had been forced upon him, but then which of his children had -been established in a career of any sort? Serge had gone his own way; -Leedham had taken things into his own hands; Frederic had a -profession, but he (Francis) had no notion how that profession was -answering or what prospect it held out. Unfortunately Francis had -never been able to take Frederic seriously, and the thought of him was -enough to set his mind working in caricature. He thrust aside all that -had been troubling him--with considerable relief--and the seed of -irony planted in him by his conversation with old Lawrie grew like a -magic beanstalk, and he saw himself in the absurd position of having -obliged a world hungry for population--(Was it not? Did not everybody -agree in saying so?)--with, for one man, a large supply of human -beings, produced quite legitimately after due notice given, only to -find that one after another the world rejected them, or at any rate -refused to provide the males with worthy work or the females with -husbands. He was walking along Miller Street as this new perception -came to him, between fifty little houses on one side and fifty little -houses on the other, and half-way down the street the door of a house -opened and Frederic came out and stopped him. He had no hat on and he -was a little nervous. He said: - -"Have you had a letter?" - -"Several. You don't write letters to me." - -"No. It's from Mrs. Lipsett. She lives here. She said she'd written to -you about me. You'd better come and see her. She lives here." - -"Friends of yours?" - -"Not exactly friends. I've only known her a fortnight. It's about her -daughter." - -"Oh!" - -Francis turned and followed Frederic into the house, and down a narrow -little passage into the kitchen at the back. This was a little dark -room looking into a backyard. Both kitchen and yard were full of -washing, for it was Monday. The remnants of a meal were on the table, -walled in with piles of damp linen. From the cellar door just outside -the kitchen came clouds of steam. - -Mrs. Lipsett was a little, faded woman, very thin, very untidy. She -was sitting in a hard Windsor chair gazing into the fire, as though -she were hypnotised by it. She did not look up as the father and son -entered. Frederic placed a chair for his father, introduced him to -Mrs. Lipsett, and without worrying as to whether she heard him or not -hurried away and shut the door. Mrs. Lipsett turned to Francis and -said: - -"My husband left me with five children and went off with a theatre -woman. He takes young girls and trains them for the dancing. He's a -rich man now, but I don't have a penny from him. It's hard work making -a living with the lodgers, and you can't do it when there's illness." - -"No, I suppose not. I'm very sorry," replied Francis uneasily. "If I -can do anything. . ." - -"_Do_ anything!" Mrs. Lipsett was scornful. "As if you could. I've -worked my fingers to the bone. Two of the girls are in a shop. It -wouldn't have been so bad if it had been them, though it would have -been bad enough. But Annie's stayed at home helping me, and I don't -see what's to be done. I don't see what's to be done. He's owned up to -it. There's that much to be said for him. But that doesn't help much, -does it?" - -"Who? . . . I don't know. . . . I'm in the dark . . ." - -"You've not had my letter . . . !" - -"Letter?" - -"Yes. That tells you." - -"Tells me what?" - -"What you ought to know." - -"About whom? About what?" - -"Him." - -"Your husband?" - -"No. Him and her." - -Francis had learned patience in dealing with his parishioners, who -were incapable of a direct statement. Mrs. Lipsett had no intention of -being mysterious. It only showed that she could not bring herself to -the point of open discussion of her affairs with a stranger. She had -flung a certain amount of anger into her letter, all the anger she was -capable of feeling, and she was not equal to the task of whipping it -up again now that she was in the presence of the man to whom she had -written in her first desire to injure Frederic. She made an effort and -went on: - -"I can't have it in the house. I can't lose my lodgers. It would -frighten the lodgers." - -"What would?" - -Mrs. Lipsett looked desperate. - -"Don't you know?" - -"No, I don't," replied Francis, rather petulantly. - -Mrs. Lipsett had risen to her feet. Now she sank back again into her -chair and began to cry. Francis preferred that to her incoherence. - -"My good woman," he said. "You seem to be in some trouble. If I can -give you any consolation . . ." - -"I am in trouble," moaned Mrs. Lipsett. "I'm always in trouble. I've -never been out of trouble since I was born. Some people are like that -you know." - -These reflections cheered her up perceptibly, and she asked Francis if -he would mind if she began to cook the first floor's tea. - -Francis began to feel exasperated. - -"My good woman," he said, "will you kindly explain what my son has to -do with all this, and why he has brought me here?" - -Mrs. Lipsett had moved to the table and taken up an armful of linen. - -"Didn't he tell you?" - -"No." - -Mrs. Lipsett dropped her linen, ran to the door and screamed "Annie!" - -A voice answered her. - -"Come here!" - -Mrs. Lipsett turned to Francis, folded her arms and with her lips -tight pressed she worried out her words: - -"Not told you, hasn't he? Leaving me to make a nice fool of myself! -I've heard of you, Mr. Folyat! That innocent you are that you don't -know you're born yet. . . ." - -Annie came in and cut short anything else she might have to say. - -"Yes, mother?" - -"Isn't Mr. Folyat with you?" - -"No. I thought he was here with you." - -"Sloped, has he? Sloped!--This is Mr. Folyat's father." - -"Good evening," said Annie. - -An awkward silence came on the three of them, and all three thought of -Frederic with varying degrees of wrath. - -"My daughter . . ." began Mrs. Lipsett. - -"Mother!" - -"Tell him yourself then." - -Annie blushed. - -"I can't." - -Mrs. Lipsett dropped into the vernacular. - -"Eh! I am vexed!" - -Francis took his hat and rose with some dignity. - -"I am sorry," he said, "but as neither of you seem disposed to -enlighten me . . ." - -Annie stood between him and the door. She blurted out: - -"It's Fred, Mr. Folyat. It wasn't fair of him to leave you alone with -mother like that. We saw you going by and he said he'd go and tell -you. I suppose he didn't. He's like that. He means well." - -"Means well!" This from Mrs. Lipsett. - -"Please, mother!" Annie went on. "Fred ought to have told you, Mr. -Folyat. I'm as much to blame as he is. I suppose I'm very wicked, but -there's some things you can't help. We didn't think, I suppose. But -it's come to that, that we've got to think. I'm going to be a mother -in three months, and Fred wants to help as much as he can." - -Francis sat down again. - -"Frederic!" - -"Yes. The beauty! Ain't you proud of him?" - -Frederic! Francis was not so much shocked as amazed. He was only too -accustomed to irregularity, large and small, but he had always -regarded the victims of it as creatures of another clay. Automatically -by their offence they passed from one compartment of his mind to -another. Where possible they were given benefit of clergy, but only as -one finds a home for a stray dog. . . . - -Mrs. Lipsett said: - -"I say he ought to marry her." - -Francis did not hear her. He was still trying to grasp the fact, but -once more he found himself confronted with the difficulty that he -could not take Frederic seriously. That Frederic should be, regularly -or irregularly, on the point of becoming a father struck him as comic -and grotesque, and yet (he said to himself) it was only to be expected -that in course of time the fate that had overtaken himself should -overtake his son also. But also a man was usually given time to get -accustomed to the idea. In the ordinary course a man introduced a -young woman to his father and mother--(with a pang he thought of Mrs. -Folyat's reception of this event!)--they were engaged, married, and as -bluntly as possible the Church service announced the probable -consequences. Everything went smoothly and one hoped for the best. But -Frederic, the buffoon, the play-actor, had dispensed with all this; -had, by a sort of conjuring trick, inveigled him into a strange house, -and left him with a very cool and collected young woman with a strong -accent and an angry mother whose speech was of the broadest, and -without a word of marriage, he was told--he was told--what was he -told? With a start Francis realised that he was not in the least -angry, as he ought to have been, as he had every right to be, and that -he was thinking of the thing without the least reference to morality. -He could not fit the formula he used for ordinary offenders to the -case of his son, and, being honest, though slow and sluggish of mind, -he admitted to himself that his one desire was to avoid having his -wife know. He looked from the young woman to her mother and saw what a -serious matter it was to them and gave up his unprofitable attempt to -see the thing in connection with Frederic--(who threw it all out of -perspective)--and, with a very real feeling for the two women, he -said: - -"I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?" - -"You're not angry?" - -Francis fell back with some relief on formula: - -"I am deeply pained and grieved. . ." But then the new little -conscience there was developing in him cried out on his insincerity -and he was silent. - -Mrs. Lipsett repeated: - -"I say he ought to marry her. I say . . ." - -"He doesn't want to marry me," said Annie. "He says he knows he -couldn't make me happy." - -"What's right is right," said Mrs. Lipsett. "Can he afford to marry -her, Mr. Folyat? Can you make him marry her?" - -"Can I?" thought Francis; and his mind flew to the idea of this young -woman being presented to his wife as her first daughter-in-law. Then -he said to himself: - -"It is not I who am to be considered, but these two women. Frederic is -least of all to be considered." - -He did his best to think of Frederic as a husband, but it was quite -hopeless. Frederic was more than ever elusive. It was impossible to -conceive him in any responsible position. That made Francis see that -it was quite useless to stay any longer. He could only go on repeating -that he was sorry. He saw no method of coercing Frederic into marriage -(or anything else). The most he could do was to be parentally angry, -and he saw the futility of that. If necessary, in the cause of good -morals, he could turn Frederic out of doors, but that would -necessitate a scene and explanations, and from that he shrank. Only -one thing was now clear--that there was nothing to be gained by -further discussion with Mrs. Lipsett and her daughter. He rose to his -feet again and said: - -"I am sorry, very sorry, extremely sorry. I will see my son. I will do -what I can. I promise you that everything that can be done will be -done." - -"Promises," said Mrs. Lipsett, "are like pie-crusts--made to be -broken." - -"Not mine," returned Francis, as he bowed himself out. - -Annie took him to the door and said: - -"I only want to get away, sir. I only want to get away." - -Francis looked into her eager face. She was almost very pretty, and -her eagerness was very touching. He was moved and a lump came into his -throat, and tears filled his eyes, and he said: - -"God bless you, my dear. You shall." - -She bowed her head as he passed out, and as he heard the latch click -he said to himself: - -"Surely she has suffered enough." - -And he felt a purely masculine anger against Frederic, anger which -oozed and trickled away on the instant, for, as he turned up the -street, he saw his son waiting for him at the corner. As he walked up -the street he called Frederic poltroon, scoundrel, blackguard, lecher, -debauchee, wastrel, but none of these words could revive his anger. As -he came face to face with his son he found another word--play-actor, -and if he had sympathy for Annie, the betrayed, he had pity for -Frederic, her betrayer. She could suffer, had suffered. Frederic could -feel nothing at all. - -"After all," thought Francis, "he is my son. I have had my share in -making him what he is." - -He looked clean through Frederic and made no sign of recognition, but -passed on with his heavy rolling stride. Frederic fell in by his side -like a terrier trying to attract the attention of a Newfoundland. - -"I wonder what they've said to him. I suppose he's devilish angry." - -And he fell to counting up his income and his debts, and wondering -exactly how cheaply he could live in lodgings. - -They walked for about half a mile in that fashion and it was Frederic -who broke the silence. - -"I didn't mean to leave you like that. I meant to have it all out in -one grand scene. I didn't jib at it. I'm not a coward. Only suddenly -it seemed to me so absurdly melodramatic. I couldn't stand it so I -cleared out . . ." - -"I don't think any explanation is necessary," replied Francis in a -curious toneless voice. - -"By George! He _is_ angry!" thought Frederic. - -"I only want to know one thing," said Francis. "Did you seduce the -young woman with a promise of marriage?" - -Frederic stole a glance at his father. It was such an odd question -coming from him! - -"There was never anything said of marriage from beginning to end. -There never is in these cases. It's so casual, you know. It seems to -me jolly unfair that it should have the same result as when you are in -dead earnest . . ." - -"Silence." - -"Sorry." - -They walked on for a quarter of a mile. - -"Does anybody know?" - -"Only our two selves, Annie and her mother--oh! and Annette." - -"Annette!" - -Francis was really angry. The thing had touched his new affection, the -treasure of his life, and by that test he saw it in its ugliness and -sordidness. For the first time he was wholly human. His one thought -was to protect Annette. - -"Are you going to marry this girl?" he asked. - -"No." - -"Are you going to provide for her?" - -"I'll do my best." - -"After this do you expect me to allow you to stay in my house?" - -"I'll clear out if you like." - -"I do like." - -"Very well then. Only you lose the right to interfere in the matter, -or in my affairs in any way." - -"I never have interfered in your affairs." - -"No. . . . You'll let me come and see my mother?" - -That brought Francis up short. (Frederic knew it would.) Frederic was -his mother's favourite. His absence from the house or presence in it -made an extraordinary difference to her mood. Lately she had grown -very jealous of Annette. . . . Francis fumbled for some means of -withdrawing the decree of banishment, and he said a little pompously: - -"The young woman told me that she was only anxious to get away. I must -help her to do that." - -"I can't let you do that." - -"I must." - -"I'm not going to have you interfering . . ." - -"You will not marry her. I can conceive of no greater misfortune -befalling her than marriage with . . ." - -"I quite agree," said Frederic. - -"All the same I must see that she is not . . ." - -"In short, you are going to connive at her immorality." - -"I refuse to discuss the matter with you any further." - -"I'm glad of that. I'll leave it in your hands and neither of us will -say a word about it to anybody." - -"No," said Francis, profoundly ashamed. - -Frederic began to hum, and they walked on until they came to the Park. - -Frederic said: - -"I had a sort of feeling you'd take it like that. You never let us -know much of what you're thinking and all that. I suppose you think -I'm an infernal scoundrel. I'm not that. You can't despise me half as -much as I despise myself, but what I most despise is the way I've let -you take the thing out of my hands. I'm very grateful." - -"If there is one thing in the world I don't want," said Francis, "it -is gratitude from you." - -"I knew I should say the wrong thing," replied Frederic, more to -himself than to his father. They were passing the little muddy pond -inhabited by a few grimy ducks and a black swan, and Frederic stopped -and amused himself by throwing bits of paper to the birds, who for -some moments were excited by the hope that they were bread. Francis -passed on, relieved to find himself once more alone. The nervous -irritation caused in him by Frederic's presence at his side had -exhausted him. Victory lay with Frederic, but he felt no resentment -about that. Hundreds of times in his life the words _Judgment is Mine, -saith the Lord_ had been on his lips--(one of his sermons had them for -text)--but now he seemed to see them in a new light and for the first -time to read a real meaning into them. - -He was very tired. He felt as though he had been engaged in a long, -long fight with shadows, no tangible enemy, but only an evil presence. - -As he passed the children's playground he saw some of his choir boys -playing tipcat. He turned in through the little gate and stood -watching them. They were entirely engrossed in their game, keenly -excited about it, and they did not notice him. Their cheeks were aglow -and their eyes were sparkling with their healthy activity, and he -began to be interested in their play. An exceptionally good shot from -one of the boys made him cry out "Bravo!" At once they became -self-conscious and uneasy. He tried to talk to them for a little but -they assumed an unnatural spryness, and he knew that he had spoiled -their game. - -He went away unhappier than ever, hurried home to Fern Square and went -straight to his study. There he sat in silence and suffered under the -tyranny of his thoughts, which went round and round in a silly circle -and would not be controlled. With tragic whimsicality he began to run -the events of the day together, to merge the Lipsett and the Lawrie -households, and he began to think what Mrs. Lawrie would have made of -Frederic. She would not have relieved Frederic of the consequences of -his folly; she would have pushed him into the morass, forced him down -to the common Lipsett level or left him to drown with his paramour. -The use of the word paramour struck Francis as particularly absurd, -and he smiled. His dislike of Mrs. Lawrie swamped everything else. -Decidedly any course of action which could seem right to her must seem -wrong to him. The impression left on his mind by Mrs. Lawrie and her -dark room was one of grinding effort to make life as like death as -possible. To Francis life was--what? The joy of boys at play, health -physical and spiritual, the struggle to reach and maintain health; -colour and light and sweetness; all things that for want of any other -outlet he had expressed, or sought to express, in the services in his -Church. . . . The first consequence of it all had been that his wife -was a querulous old woman before her time. He had faced that long ago. -The second tangible consequence was this affair of Frederic's, and -this also he had faced, and the worst that was demanded of him was -that he should for the first time deliberately withhold a fact, a new -development in his life, from his wife. There was an extraordinary -ironic justice about it all. The sins of the fathers are visited upon -the children for the castigation of the fathers. . . . Francis found -himself on the verge of reflections so unclerical that he flung -himself back, and to save himself from further thought took down his -Bible. He was familiar with almost every word of it, but now to his -dismay he found himself finding in it practical wisdom bearing on the -brief life of man here below rather than prophesy and gorgeous -promises of the life to come which should be everlasting. It was -amazingly comforting to read the book in this (to him) new fashion and -to let himself be excited by its call to action. He wearied a little -of the savagery and dark pessimism of the Old-Testament, and turning -to the Gospels found in them one stirring principle of active love, -and hatred only for hypocrisy and fraud and slovenliness. - -"Verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God -as a little child shall in no wise enter therein." - -He put down the Bible and took up "Tom Jones," and remembered an -Irishman, a student in Dublin, who had shocked him by maintaining that -Tom Jones had certainly entered into the Kingdom of God and was -rewarded with an angel, to wit Sophia Western. Curiously that seemed -to Francis to be something more than a profane joke. - -"All the same," he said, "it is a long stride from Tom Jones to -Frederic." - -With that he fell to thinking of the student in Dublin and the men of -old days, and wondered what might have become of them all and if they -had fared better or worse than himself. - - - -XVI - -MRS. FOLYAT DISSECTED - -_If you had married a conscientious Bishop and made_ him _live in a -pig-stye--à la bonne heure!_ - JOHN RUSKIN - -FROM being a governess with extremely small wages Annette became a -servant with no wages at all. A few months after her return to her -father's house, Ada, the cook-general, married (beneath her) and she -was replaced by a gnomish child of sixteen who wore short dresses and -had her hair done up at the back in a tight little bun. She talked an -entirely unintelligible language and delighted the Folyat family on -the day after her arrival by saying to Annette, who happened to be in -the kitchen: - -"Eeh! Annie,"--never a "Miss" from a North-country girl--"Eeh! Annie, -will ye whack t' pots on t' table while I wash me 'ead?" - -Annette obliged, and "whacking the pots on the table" became the -family euphemism for getting a meal ready. - -Gertrude and Mary had gradually retired from active service--Mary with -better excuse than Gertrude--and the whole administration of the -household devolved on Annette. Nothing was said to her about it, no -arrangement was made; it just happened, and nobody noticed that it had -happened. From early morning when she prepared tea for her mother, to -late at night when she boiled her chocolate, Annette was cooking, -washing up, dusting, making the beds, &c., and her only excursions, -except to church or the schools, were to the shops to buy the -wherewithal to cook, wash-up, dust, &c. Nobody ever thanked her: for -many weeks nobody remarked that she was doing so much, and then Serge -found her dragging a heavy coal-scuttle up the stairs to his studio, -relieved her of it and questioned her. After that, when he was at -home, he did what he could to assist her in the heavy work. - -As for Mrs. Folyat, she was a very lily, in that she toiled not -neither did she spin. When she thought of it, she resented the decline -and fall of her kitchen from cook-housemaid and parlourmaid to the -sixteen-year-old hobgoblin, but, resentment being rather an active -state of mind, she avoided it by giving no thought to the matter. - -If Mrs. James Lawrie could be likened to a garden roller, Mrs. Folyat -could most nearly be said to resemble a mill-stone. She was of the -great and ignoble army of people who are neither good nor bad, -renounce their potentialities in either direction, and drag all those -to whom they cling--for cling they must if they are to remain above -ground--down to the lowest depths of impotence, than which there is no -worse state. She made herself comfortable with fiction and preferred -everything to truth. An amazing capacity she had for compelling others -to acquiesce in her self-deceptions by tickling their sentimentality -so that it rose in them like a flood of treacle and slopped over their -imagination and critical faculty. Had it ever occurred to her to -exercise this power in print she might have become an enormously -successful novelist. She was to all appearances much loved, and all -her acquaintances and many of those whom she called her friends always -spoke of her as "dear Mrs. Folyat." She was never unhappy, but, on the -other hand, she was never happy. In all material matters she was a -furious optimist. She liked eating and sleeping and gossiping and -going to the theatre and reading. If she could indulge in all these -seemingly harmless pleasures to the extent of her appetite it seemed -to her that all was well with the world. - -When she married Francis, ambition was stirred in her and satisfied. -Through the long years at St. Withans she bore him children with great -regularity and also with the indifference of an automaton. She -regarded herself as a perfect wife because she was faithful, and as a -perfect mother for no other reason than that she was a mother. When -her children offended her she chastised them, when they pleased her -she kissed and fondled them. On the whole she brought them up on the -principle of Rabelais' Abbé: _Fais ce que vouldras._ On that principle -also she conducted her own life, but, unhappily, she never wanted -anything much. - -She believed herself to be a Christian. She was so familiar with the -Bible that it had absolutely no meaning for her. Her memory was -astonishing, so that she did not need to read the book. Her childhood -had been spent in an atmosphere of great piety, and she had absorbed -the whole Scripture from Genesis to Revelation, through the pores of -her skin rather than through her brains. What most nearly penetrated -her consciousness was, curiously enough, the prophecies of the end of -the world: _There shall be wars and rumours of wars_, and every now -and then she indulged herself in the luxury of terror, reading signs -in everything. She was extremely superstitious and would never walk -under a ladder, nor sit thirteen at a table, and when a mirror was -broken in the house or salt was spilt or knives were crossed, she -would see in the next disaster, great or small, the infallible -consequence. She was delighted when she met a hunchback in the street, -for that portended luck; alarmed on an encounter with a cross-eyed -woman, for that boded no good. Her mind was like a dusty empty room, -the door of which was sealed with cobwebs, showing that she had not -for many years passed out nor had any entered in. She was romantic and -picturesque, loving the romance of fiction, and entirely oblivious of -the romance of fact. Only twice in her life did she deliver herself of -utterances the least philosophical, and as, being what she was, her -sincerity must remain suspect, neither can be taken as giving a clue -to the inward workings of her mind. These are they: - -(1) Long after Gertrude was married and had lived through her little -tragi-comedy she said: - -"All men are beasts. I married the best of them, and he's a beast." - -(2) When one of her grandchildren--(this being a digression we may -skirmish up and down the alleys of time)--beset by philosophic doubt, -wanted to know what was going to happen to the world she made this -pronunciamento: - -"The world will go on getting worse and worse until the end of -everything comes, just as the Bible tells you. There shall be wars and -rumours of wars, . . . &c." - -At the back of her mind during all her adult life was the belief in -the proximity of the end of the world, and in her inevitable -translation to divine regions, where, with her husband, she would live -an untroubled and unsexed life of uninterrupted habit. She took her -husband with her, partly because he was a clergyman and had a -prescriptive right to a heavenly mansion, but chiefly because, after -so many years, she was unable to conceive of an existence without him. -It was all very hazy, but it was towards this future that she turned -when she said her prayers morning and evening. This she did as -mechanically as she dressed and undressed, between which two -operations she devoted herself to her public duties as rector's -wife--Bible classes, mothers' meetings, and mission work--and to the -cultivation of the nearest approach to a passion in her existence, -gentility. She spent many solitary hours in the drawing-room because -she could not sit with Francis in his study, as she disliked the smell -of tobacco and detested his allegiance to a clay pipe. She was hardly -ever known to stoop to enter the kitchen. - -Withal her authority was never questioned, and she obtained from her -family, their friends and acquaintances, the homage and service she -expected. - -She was a match-maker, and no combination of male and female was too -grotesque for her. She was delighted with Gertrude's engagement. -Bennett Lawrie's personality lent itself to sentimental heroics, and -she was more than a little in love with him herself--as a little girl -is in love with the first-comer. Minna's plurality in affairs of the -heart baffled and annoyed her, for in love she always looked for -constancy. She had marked down Streeten Folyat for Mary, though, -beyond sending a brace of grouse every August, he showed little sign -of desiring the more acquaintance of his cousins. . . . Annette and -Serge she left unmated, of Serge she was afraid, and of Annette she -took little account. But for Frederic she had planned many famous -weddings and had laid countless traps for him. He never saw her -scheming, but, going his own way, he ever evaded her until, having -failed in her higher flights, she came to look nearer home. The -Clibran-Bells had inherited money, and there was only one life between -them and a large fortune, so that all the girls would possess some -three hundred a year, while George would eventually be a man of large -means, for the money came through Mrs. Clibran-Bell and avoided Mr. -Clibran-Bell altogether. This sudden and unexpected outcrop of wealth -occasioned great excitement in Fern Square, and the Clibran-Bells -added another servant to their two. They also made a gift of two new -altar-cloths and a chalice to the church. One of the altar-cloths was -worked by Jessie Clibran-Bell with embroidery and appliqué. She was an -accomplished needlewoman, had many little talents, and she was -intelligent and pious. She was the eldest of the family and the most -nearly beautiful. Her nose was straight and like her mother's, whereas -her sisters had unfortunately gone to their father for their noses and -got them of an unwomanly hugeness. Mrs. Folyat selected Jessie for -Frederic, and soon perceived, what had escaped her before, that she -was in love with him. - -Jessie was two years older than Frederic. She was just a little -austere in temperament, singularly pure and innocent in mind. The wave -of religious fervour which follows on confirmation had endured with -her, and she had secretly aspired to become a nun until the advent of -Frederic. Then, having escaped the wasteful expenditure of affection -upon folly that fills the adolescence of most young women, she -suffered a tremendous upheaval. Living with a prying, curious family, -she thrust her emotion away and tried to cover it, and affected a -frivolity which was entirely foreign to her. Alternately she avoided -and sought Frederic's company, as first one and then the other -procedure seemed to her the less conspicuous. Her labours were all in -vain, for Minna knew her condition almost as soon as she did herself, -and made no secret of it. As time went on Jessie grew accustomed to -the presence of love in her life, realised that it would be impossible -for her to take any other husband than Frederic, and resigned herself -with truly Christian fortitude and patience to wait until that -happened which she desired should happen. She had never enjoyed any -confidence with her mother, whom she had been brought up to regard as -the most beautiful lady in the world, the "very pinnacle of human -virtue." (The phrase was her father's, often on his lips, and Minna -always referred to Mrs. Clibran-Bell as "The Pinnacle.") - -It may be ennobling and purifying to idealise your womenkind, but if -your womenkind accept the position they are rather apt to believe, -with disastrous results, that it is more blessed to receive than to -give. Certain it is that if Robert Clibran-Bell had an ideal, he never -had a wife, and that his children never had a mother. - -Jessie Clibran-Bell in her simplicity believed that the Folyats had -all that she had lacked. She was devoted to Francis, and when Mrs. -Folyat played her sentimentalist's game with her she was entirely -deceived, saw in Mrs. Folyat a perfect hen of a mother and crept under -her wing. All this took some time, and it was not until the change in -the Clibran-Bell fortunes that Mrs. Folyat made room for Jessie. She -made her snug and warm, and, in sheer gratitude, without making any -actual confession, Jessie laid bare her feelings. Mrs. Folyat kissed -her and gave her to understand that though Frederic was her favourite -child and a paragon among men, yet he was unworthy of such profound, -such patient, such unselfish devotion. The more she abused Frederic -the more warmly did Jessie's fondness flow. They both enjoyed -themselves thoroughly, and often met in conclave in the Folyat -drawing-room. So absorbed did Mrs. Folyat become in the pursuit of -this new intrigue that she lost interest in Gertrude's affair and -devoted herself to the snaring of Frederic. - - - -XVII - -FREDERIC SNARED - -_There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow._ - HAMLET - -THE snaring of men is the tamest sport in the world. It is so -ridiculously easy. Let but the female cast a favourable eye upon the -male and he is hers--for as long as she is clever enough to keep him. -Whether a prize so easily won is worth the keeping is a matter for -every woman to decide for herself. Generally the matter is settled by -the advent of children, or by economic complications, or by fear of -public opinion. Desire waits upon vanity and vanity is the destroyer -of love. Unhappily passion is so exceedingly rare that there would be -neither marriage nor giving in marriage if men and women did not -hoodwink themselves and each other. Quite clearly the world would be -the better without the hoodwinking and the marriages resulting from -it, but, these being in the majority, and the ignoble art of -hoodwinking being passed on from generation to generation, and -commended by eminent divines and popular writers, and since women -insist on getting married in all circumstances and at whatever cost of -degradation and disappointment, there is nothing to be done but to -grin and bear it and applaud every active protest that is made against -it. - -These were the sentiments roused in Serge Folyat when it was announced -that Frederic had entered upon an indefinite engagement to marry -Jessie Clibran-Bell. - -Quite other and not at all philosophical were the sentiments of -Frederic's father when the announcement was made to him exactly a week -after his visit to Miller Street, to the house of Mrs. Lipsett. He was -shocked and outraged, but as the announcement was made to him by his -wife--in their bedroom--and she seemed to take an extraordinary -pleasure in it, he was silent. Mrs. Folyat declared herself entirely -taken by surprise. She had made Frederic take her and Jessie to the -pantomime, and on the way home Jessie had stolen her hand into hers -and said: - -"I am so happy." - -And Frederic had added: - -"Yes. Isn't she?" - -And then she knew! And Frederic was so proud and happy too. And so -brave and manly! He could not think of marrying Jessie until he was -making three hundred a year. And didn't Francis think it was time they -set Frederic up in a practice by himself? - -Francis groaned inwardly. - -It would be delightful (continued Mrs. Folyat) to have Frederic -settled. Of course he would only have a small establishment to begin -with, but when he had made his position, he would be able to live in -the best suburbs on the south of the town and his sons would go to -public schools. Jessie was such a dear girl, as Francis would find -when he knew her better, and she was so devotedly attached to -Frederic, and Frederic was so very much in love, so chivalrous and -attentive. Nothing better could be wished for. Francis must really -consider the possibility of providing Frederic with an office of his -own. - -"I'll think it over," said Francis. "If you don't mind, I would like -to sleep." - -Mrs. Folyat continued her monologue for a quarter of an hour and -lulled herself to sleep with the sound of her own voice. - -Francis lay on his back staring into the darkness. His first impulse -was to go up to Frederic's room and have it out with him there and -then, but he could hardly do that without waking the woman sleeping at -his side. Also he had made it a rule never to act in any difficulty -without sleeping on it, or, at any rate, if sleep visited him not, -without a night's cogitation. The trouble was that this new -complication seemed to him so hideous that he hated to think of it. In -the cause of morality, also for the sake of Jessie Clibran-Bell, he -ought to denounce Frederic and fling him out neck and crop. But common -sense bade him pause. What would be the result? A great deal of -wretchedness and misery in two houses, and in all probability -Frederic's utter ruin. - -Already he was an accessory after the fact of Frederic's first -dishonour. Could he become an aider and abettor of the second? Or, -rather, having swallowed the first could he reasonably strain at the -second? . . . He condemned himself for his weakness in palliating such -an offence for the sake of peace. Then, rebounding from -self-condemnation--(no man can keep it up for very long)--he told -himself that it was not for the sake of peace but to save that poor -girl from a drudging life with a man out of her own class. Then, in -justice, he was forced to admit that the truth lay between the two. - -His final conclusion, just as dawn began to outline the window, was -that the world must be much less or more simple than he had thought. -The effort of deciding which the world was entirely exhausted him, and -sleep came at last. - -In the morning he had a letter from his brother William, the first for -fifteen years, announcing his return from India and settlement at -Sydenham, near the Crystal Palace, where he would be glad to see -Francis, his wife, or any of his children. How many were there? He, -William, had two. - -Francis handed it over to his wife just as Frederic came down. - -"Aren't you going to congratulate Frederic, my dear?" asked Mrs. -Folyat. - -Frederic looked across at his father with malicious defiance in his -eyes. Francis opened another letter and ignored the question. Mrs. -Folyat returned to the charge. - -"My dear, Frederic is to be congratulated." - -"I am as delighted," replied Francis, "as Frederic is himself." - -Frederic viciously sliced off the top of an egg. Mrs. Folyat seemed to -be satisfied. She read William's letter. - -"That will be very nice," she said. "Gertrude could stay with them on -her way back from the Folkestone Folyats." - -Frederic went to the door and bawled peevishly to Annette to bring his -coffee. - -"Annette," observed Francis, "is not a servant." - -"I know," returned Frederic, "but I can't be late." - -Annette appeared with Frederic's coffee. He gave her no thanks, and -she returned to cook breakfast for Serge, Minna, and Gertrude. (Mary -was away on a visit.) - -"I think," said Francis, "I think Annette might be the first to stay -with William." - -"Annette!" Mrs. Folyat swept her out of consideration. "Annette! She -has no clothes." - -Frederic gulped down his coffee and hurried away. - -"It will be time," said Mrs. Folyat, "it will be time to think of -Annette when Gertrude and Mary and Minna are married." - -"And suppose they never marry?" - -"Of course they will marry." - -Serge came down in Frederic's dressing-gown, and shortly afterwards -Minna and Gertrude followed him. - -"Any news?" asked Minna. - -"My dear . . ." - -Mrs. Folyat wriggled with excitement. - -"My dear. What do you think? Frederic took me and Jessie to the -pantomime last night; I thought it vulgar and most unsuitable for -children. And what do you think? Frederic and Jessie are engaged." - -"How clever of you, ma," said Minna. - -"I! I was entirely taken by surprise." - -Minna grinned: - -"So was Wellington when he found he had won the battle of Waterloo." - -Francis gathered up his letters and the daily paper, a Conservative -organ, together with the _Church Times_, and turned to Serge. - -"If you can give me a moment or two," he said, "I should like your -opinion on a matter of some importance." - -"Delighted," answered Serge. - -Five minutes later Serge knocked at the study door, went in, and found -his father at his desk writing a letter. Francis laid down his pen and -turned. - -"I want your opinion as a man of the world. I find myself in a -situation with which I am not competent to deal, and yet I must deal -with it." - -"My experience is," said Serge, "that most problems solve themselves." - -"This is a moral problem." - -"Moral problems crumble away under the pressure of time more easily -than any others." - -Francis was not encouraged. However, he went on: - -"Frederic . . ." - -"Ah! I thought it must be about Frederic." - -"Frederic has proposed to and been accepted by Jessie Clibran-Bell." - -"A very estimable young woman, though she has no sense of humour." - -"Frederic is also entangled . . ." - -"With the daughter of a lodging-house keeper." - -"You knew that?" - -"Yes. I knew that." - -"You can imagine then what pain and sorrow this must have caused me." - -"Yes. It is always distressing to find fiction overturned by facts." - -"You do not condemn Frederic?" - -"It is surely one of the first principles of religion to condemn -nobody." - -"True. True. But one must not encourage immorality." - -"Nothing encourages immorality so much as condemnation and -prohibition." - -"Is that how men of the world think of it?" - -"I don't know. It is how I think of it." - -Francis combed his fingers through his beard. - -"Then . . . Then, what am I to do?" - -"It seems to me that the difficulty has already solved itself. Miss -Clibran-Bell is in love with Frederic. She will probably make him a -good wife. Frederic could not possibly marry the other girl. It would -destroy all her chances of marrying a man whom she could love, honour -and respect . . ." - -"But he has destroyed her chances." - -"Not at all. She will be a soberer, a better and a more sympathetic -woman after this experience, if she is helped through it and treated -with decent human feeling . . . Frederic is finished as far as she is -concerned." - -"I told Frederic he must leave my house. I went back on it." - -"That was just as well. It would have made my mother very unhappy and -caused a bitter scandal in your parish. These things are nobody's -affair until they are everybody's affair. The only sane course to -pursue is to see that they do not become everybody's affair!" - -"What do you suggest?" - -"Do what you can for the girl and leave Frederic alone. No man can -trifle with his emotions with impunity. That is natural law, Divine -law if you like, infinitely more searching than your law of crime and -punishment. The trouble with you people is that you think moral laws -are a human invention. They're not. They are an inherent principle of -the universe, and we are as subject to them as we are to the weather. -This thing is Frederic's affair and his only. You and I know perfectly -well that he won't look after the girl if he is left to himself, -therefore you and I must interfere, for purely humane reasons, as you -do with your parishioners, and as I do with any human trouble that I -happen to come across. You can give the girl a few pounds to take her -down into the country. She'll be much better there, and you can allow -her, say, ten shillings a week until she gets work or marries." - -"I was just writing to her," said Francis. "I wasn't sure whether it's -right." - -"Perhaps it isn't," replied Serge. "But at least it is practical." - -"I am glad to have talked it over with you. Should I say anything to -Frederic?" - -"No. If you want to hurt him--though I don't see why you should--you -will do so far more by simply ignoring him and taking the affair out -of his hands." - -"Thank you. I'll write to the young woman." - -"If you like I'll find a place in the country for her." - -"That will be good of you. Thank you." - -This conversation with Serge relieved Francis enormously. He was like -a man who, after long hesitation at a cross-road had followed one way -for a mile or two, and then needed reassuring. He had already written -half his letter to Annie Lipsett. He thoroughly enjoyed completing it. - -Serge left him at it and found his mother waiting for him by the -dining-room door. She said she wanted to speak to him, drew him into -the room, and began to cross-examine him as to what his business might -have been with Francis. He told her it was nothing of any importance, -and then with a great deal of hesitation she came to her business. - -"Don't you think Jessie is just the very wife for Frederic, Serge?" - -"The usual remark that she is far too good for him seems to be -peculiarly appropriate." - -"Serge, does Frederic ever talk to you about himself?" - -"Only in his more light-hearted moments." - -There was a moment's hesitation on Mrs. Folyat's part. Then: - -"Serge, there is an odious woman pursuing Frederic. She is threatening -him. Has he told you?" - -"No. But I know." - -"Oh! Serge, please, please, can't you save him from her clutches? I -have been so wretched about it. Don't let him marry her!" - -"That," said Serge with gusto, "that he shall not do if I can help -it." - -"Oh! Serge, thank you. . . . Don't let Frederic know I told you, and -don't say anything to your father. It would upset him so dreadfully." - -"No. I won't say anything to either." - -"Oh! Serge. I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. Why does -Heaven allow such creatures . . . . ?" - -"I must get to my work," said Serge. He kissed his mother and patted -her shoulder, and stayed with her until she had dried her eyes and -looked up at him with a watery smile. - -Later in the morning, hearing Annette in the next room, he called to -her, and when she came he asked her: - -"Does mother read father's letters?" - -"She reads any letters she can find. I don't think she can help it," -said Annette, blushing for her own lapse. - -"Wicked old woman," chuckled Serge. "Would you like a day in the -country, one Saturday, Annette?" - -"I should love it more than anything." - -"You shall have it. You're the only person in this house who deserves -well of the world, and to taste the sweetness of things. Possibly -you're the only person who can." - -"I would like," said Annette, "I would like to go to a river." - -"So you shall, the very best river we can find." - -"You're very good to me, Serge." - -Annette was too busy to stay talking. Serge turned to his work and she -strode away. - -* * * - -As Francis had promised, so it was done. Serge found rooms for Annie -Lipsett in a not too dull village. Her mother's lodgers were told that -she was run down and going away for a change, and would be away for -three months. They received the intelligence with about as much -interest as though they had been told that the ceilings needed -whitewashing--as they did--and Annie went away. The only condition -that had been made was that she should not write to Frederic. Her -mother shed a great many tears, but promised to come and see her once -a week and to be near her when her time came. - -Frederic was received with open arms by his prospective father, mother -and sisters-in-law. The Clibran-Bells and the Folyats joined in -rejoicing over him, and he found himself doomed to slavery. He -affected the attitude of the devoted swain, and every minute of his -day, outside his working hours, was given to Jessie, her mother, her -sisters, her father, her brother, her cat. He went nowhere alone with -her. He went nowhere without her. . . . They were to be married as -soon as he was earning three hundred a year. He looked ahead and saw -no prospect of it. He became very envious of people who were happy. - - - -XVIII - -EXCURSION - -_Enter these enchanted woods, - You who dare!_ - THE WOODS OF WESTERMAIN - -MRS. FOLYAT had her way--as when did she not?--and it was Gertrude, -equipped cap-à-pie with new clothes, who went to stay with her uncle -William at Sydenham, near the Crystal Palace. Therefore she was not of -the party which grew out of Serge's promise to take Annette into the -country on a Saturday. Annette had been unable to keep this entrancing -project to herself. Minna had half suggested, half demanded, that she -should be of the party. To square the number Serge had asked Basil -Haslam, and Minna out of coquetry had invited Herbert Fry, Frederic's -quondam Plymouth comrade, who had turned up on legal business, which, -moving slowly, had kept him many weeks, so that, to while away the -tedious hours, he had resumed relations with her. He was still -"Apollyon," had an air of great prosperity, flattered Mrs. Folyat up -to the eyes, so that he was altogether in her good graces, and she -entertained hopes of his carrying Minna back with him to London. (He -had told Frederic, but not Mrs. Folyat nor Minna that he was married.) -To pair with either Haslam or Fry, as the case might be, Mary was -included, and, in compassion for his forlornness in the absence of his -"old, old love," Bennett Lawrie. - -Serge paid. Annette made up a great basket of provisions which Bennett -Lawrie and Basil Haslam carried between them. - -Less than an hour's journey took them to a great river where they -hired two boats--a double-sculler and a dinghy. Basil Haslam tried to -manoeuvre Minna into the dinghy, but could not detach her from her -"Apollyon," and was forced to relinquish the little boat to Serge and -Annette, who jumped into it while the rest were arguing, pushed off, -and rowed away up stream, leaving them to follow in the bigger boat. - -"Our party," said Serge, as he sent the little boat skimming over the -water, while Annette dipped her fingers over the side and let the -water gurgle up her arm. - -"But I'm glad the others came," answered Annette. "That boy Lawrie -looks so pale." - -Serge made her take the rudder lines and taught her how to steer. - -"How red your hands are getting," he said. - -"It's the housework." - -"What a shame!" - -"Oh! I like it." - -"Better than governessing?" - -"Oh! much, much better. It's home, you see. And, of course, there's -you. I often sit in your room when you're not there, and sometimes I -look at the things. It must be wonderful to be able to--to draw." - -"Now, why?" - -"I don't quite know, only when you come to beautiful places like this -it makes you want to--want to . . ." - -"Well?" - -"I don't quite know. . . . It's like growing . . ." - -"That's quite good. I'd like to know what you think of me, Annette?" - -"You're very puzzling. Sometimes I think you don't take anything -seriously, but then I think it is because you are so different." - -"How different?" - -"Not like Frederic." - -Out of the bank near them scuttled a vole, and along and into a hole -under the roots of a willow. Annette watched him eagerly, and then -returned to Serge, and said: - -"Don't let's talk about Frederic. I am so happy." - -Serge began to sing. He had very fine deep notes, but his voice failed -him in the upper register, and whenever it cracked he laughed, and -when he laughed Annette had to join in. He could never remember any -song through to the end, and he invented the most absurd words. Then -over a long stretch, as he rowed, he sang a melancholy canoe-song in a -minor key that he had heard on the Zambesi. He sang it over and over -again. - -"I like that," said Annette. "Do you know, often when I'm in the -kitchen I think I'm in a boat sailing away and away. It's like -dreaming, only it goes on and on . . ." - -"That's love." - -"Is it? . . . That's nonsense. I'm not in love." - -"Not _in_ love, my dear. But it's love all the same! Your little soul -growing and expanding, trying to find an outlet, a channel that will -lead it to warmth and the sun . . ." - -"You make me feel unhappy when you talk like that." - -"You're wiser than I am, Annette. You accept things where I think -about them." - -"We mustn't lose the others." - -"We shan't lose them. They'll have to come on until they find us. If I -thought that Fry was rowing I'd take him ten miles, but I'm pretty -sure he isn't." - -"You don't like him." - -"No. Do you?" - -"No. But he's very pleasant." - -"You can admire what you don't like?" - -"I like to admire people. When I'm working it's pleasant to remember -the things they do and say, and the way they say them." - -"So you're a pleased and uncritical audience of the doings in Fern -Square?" - -Annette dodged the question. She gave a long sigh, and said: - -"I am enjoying myself; but I like best being alone with you. It's such -a glorious day." - -And then she began to tell him some of the stories she composed about -him for Deedy Fender's benefit. When she had done she added: - -"Of course, I never imagined anything like you." - -"Are you disappointed?" - -"Oh! no." - -They came to a great wood growing down to the water's edge. Serge ran -the boat into the bank and moored her. He filled his pipe and began to -smoke, then lay back with his head on the little seat in the bows. -Annette sat with her hands in her lap, and they basked in the hot sun -and felt that it was very good. The birds were very merry in the -trees. In the trees the wind whispered songs gathered from the sea -only twenty miles away. Over all blazed the sun. Flies danced above -the water. All was harmony and peace. - -Round the bend of the river came the other boat. Bennett Lawrie and -Basil Haslam were rowing. Mary was steering, and on each side of her -were Minna and Herbert Fry. - -Fry called out: - -"You've led us a nice dance. It is an hour past lunch time." - -Serge grinned and shouted pleasantly: - -"All the better for eating, my dear." - -The big boat bumped into the dinghy and moored alongside. The -luncheon-basket was hauled out, and on the grass under the trees a -cloth was spread. They sat round it, and for some time were silent -until their hunger began to be appeased. - -"At half-past three," said Serge, "I am going to bathe. Will you join -me, Basil?" - -Haslam assented. - -"What about you, Lawrie?" - -"I would like to, only I can't swim." - -"You can bob up and down in the shallows." - -"I don't think I will," said Bennett miserably. - -"Some one," commented Minna, "must stay and look after us. You can't -leave three sisters alone." - -"Fry will protect you from each other," said Serge. - -"Delighted," rejoined Herbert Fry, with a gallant glance at Minna. - -Mary said: - -"This pie is perfectly delicious, Annette. You certainly make pastry -better than any of us." - -"Mary's first remark to-day," said Minna, maliciously. - -Mary, who had been most amiably disposed, relapsed into silence, then, -feeling that she was damping the general cheerfulness, she made -another effort and turned to Herbert Fry, and asked him: - -"I suppose you find our town very dull after London." - -Herbert Fry replied: - -"Of course, you know, London is the only place to live in." - -"It obviously isn't that," said Serge, "since there are millions of -people who don't live in it, don't want to live in it, have never been -there, and also many millions who have never heard of it." - -Minna was startled. - -"Hullo, Serge! You going to defend our horrid, dirty town?" - -"It doesn't need me to do that. It is quite satisfied with itself. -There is really something admirable about its hard, conceited pride. -We don't really belong to it, being parasitic. If we did, we should be -like the rest, blinding ourselves with a tragic vanity." - -"Whether I'm a parasite or not," rejoined Minna, "I'm going to get out -of it as soon as I can." - -"So am I," said Haslam. "I'm going to London at the end of the year. -I've only been there once, but it is a fine place, and no mistake." - -"I've been there twice," said Minna. "Mary's been three times. Annette -never. Have you been, Bennett?" - -Bennett was rather taken aback at being drawn into the conversation. -He was rather shy of Minna. - -"No," he said. "I've never been to London. My father has been. I don't -suppose I shall ever go. It's such a long way. It must be a wonderful -place. I've read a lot about it." - -"I don't think they have nearly such good music as we have here . . ." -Mary had waited very patiently to produce the remark which had been in -her mind when she first spoke. She did so with such a flourish that -she brought the conversation to an end. Serge wound it up with: - -"We didn't come into the country to talk of towns." - -"No," said Minna. "We came to have lunch, and a very good lunch it has -been." - -She rose to her feet with a whimsical right-and-left glance at Haslam -and Fry, as though she were hazarding which to take with her. Both -sprang up together as she moved away, but Haslam was the quicker and -reached her side first. They disappeared into the woods, and Fry -returned sulkily to the rest of the party. Annette began to gather the -plates, knives and forks to take them down to the water. - -"Shall I help you?" said Serge. - -"No, thank you. I think Bennett might, as he's the youngest." - -Annette had been feeling very sorry for Bennett. He seemed so -solitary, so much out of his element, so unable to cope with grown men -like Serge and Basil and the lordly Londoner, Fry. He accepted her -invitation with obvious relief, took her burden, and carried it down -to the water's edge, under a willow trailing its leaves in the water. - -Herbert Fry offered his escort to Mary, and she acquiesced, bridling. - -Serge was left alone. He lay on his back and gazed up at the -sky--blue, serene, cheering, and comforting. His body relaxed, and he -gave himself up to the sweetness of the day's mood, not without a -final drowsy reflection: - -"If such a moment of contentment as this is the highest good, and, -since it can be procured at the cost of a little physical labour -rewarded by a solid meal, what's the good of all the rest? The answer -to that is that one cannot live alone. What a day for love-making!" He -laughed. "Everything leads back to that." - -He thought of Herbert Fry fobbed off with Mary, and he chuckled. Then -he thought of Bennett Lawrie and Annette together by the water. He -raised himself up. He could not see them, but he could hear their -voices. - -"What a day!" he said again, and added "for love-making." - -* * * - -Down by the river Annette and Bennett were at first very shy of each -other. In silence she handed him the plates, and he dipped them in the -water and handed them back to her and she dried them; then the forks, -and when they came to the knives, Bennett thought: - -"Why can't I say something?" - -And Annette thought: - -"Why can't I say something?" - -She looked out along the shining river, slow-moving under its green -banks; never a house, never a boat in sight, and Bennett was bending -down entirely engrossed in his occupation. It was his air of complete -absorption in everything he did and said (though he never did and -never said anything remarkable) that interested her and made her want -to know more of him. - -At last, when they had finished, very timidly she asked him: - -"Are you going to be a clergyman?" - -"I'm afraid not." - -"Oh! I'm sorry!" She remembered very vividly his earnestness in her -father's study. - -"It costs too much money, you know. And my mother doesn't believe in -me. It wouldn't be any good if she did, because there isn't any -money." - -Annette could only say again: - -"I'm sorry." - -Instead of moving away, she sat down on the bank, and Bennett knelt -quite near her. Seeking to explain away her desire to stay, she said: - -"It's so lovely here." - -"It's not so beautiful as Scotland." - -"Or Westmoreland." - -"Have you been to Scotland?" - -"I was at school in Edinburgh." - -"My father comes from Scotland." - -They exchanged the histories of their respective fathers. His was a -mournful tale of a gradual descent into poverty, and he ended: - -"I suppose I shall be a clerk all my life, unless I run away and -become an actor." - -"An actor?" - -"Yes. I should go to London. I might starve in the beginning, but I'd -be a great man in the end. I'd play Shakespeare. Don't you love -Shakespeare?" - -"I've never read any of his plays." - -"I'd like to read you some. I know some of the speeches by heart." - -And he delivered himself of the oration of Henry V before Harfleur. -When that was done he plunged into the address of Othello to the most -potent, grave, and reverend signiors, warmed to the words, lost -himself, and came to a triumphant close with: "This was the only -witchcraft that I used." - -"Who was she?" - -"Desdemona. And in the end he smothered her because a beast called -Iago told lies about her." - -"You do recite well." - -"I couldn't recite badly to you." - -"But what will . . . ?" - -She was going to ask what Gertrude would do while he starved in -London, but she could not force Gertrude's name to her lips and she -broke off the question, and covered her awkwardness by throwing a twig -into the water and watching it float down the stream. Bennett seemed -to know what she was going to say, for he became suddenly embarrassed -and his excited confidence oozed from him. He threw her back on -herself by asking: - -"What are you going to do?" - -"I--I don't know. Just go on." - -"I couldn't do that. Anything's better than just going on." - -"But it's different for you. You're a man." - -"Yes," said Bennett, pleased by the reflection that, after all, he was -a man. "Yes, I suppose it is more difficult for a woman. But I shan't -run away. I shall just go on and on being a clerk all the rest of my -life." - -He was appealing to her for pity; in vain. Annette said, cheerfully: - -"There must be thousands of men who are clerks, and they can't all be -so wretched." - -"Some people don't mind, and the rest get used to it. I'm not like -that. I want to do things. It isn't enough just to earn your living. A -navvy can do that. A horse does that, or a pony down in a mine." - -"What else can you do?" - -"You can fight against darkness, and ugliness, and cruelty, and -everything that makes life horrible and ugly and terrifying for -children." - -"Oh! for children!" - -"Yes. You don't know what my childhood has been like . . ." And he -drew a rapid picture of the loneliness of an imaginative child in a -dark unhappy house where no love was. "Even now I'm often afraid of -the dark stairs up to the attic where I sleep." - -"Please, please," said Annette, "don't talk of it any more. It has all -been so dark, and it is so lovely here." - -"It's odd, but I've never talked like that to . . ." - -He, like Annette, could not force Gertrude's name to his lips. - -She began to gather the knives and forks. Then she stopped and looked -at him. Their eyes met for a second, then his turned away. - -"Well?" he said. - -Annette was a little troubled as she gave him her answer: - -"I do so want you to be happy." - -She left him on that and returned to Serge. He was asleep, lying on -one side with his hand over his face. Noiselessly she began to re-pack -the basket. When she had done that she stole away into the woods, and -caught up by their happy mystery, their joy in the warm air, and the -sun she ran down the first path she came to until she reached a little -place full of bracken. She flung herself down on the carpet of dead -leaves and looked along under the bracken stalks--the tiny forest -under the great--and watched the gleeful play of light and green -shadow. It was good to be alive and sweet to be alone. - -By the river sat Bennett in an attitude of utter dejection. He tried -to tell himself, as so often he had told himself, that he loved -Gertrude with a love that should defy death itself, but the idea woke -no echo in his heart. It melted not as was its habit. (It had melted -for so many, besides Gertrude, with the sick sweet longing of a boy.) -The image of Gertrude was cold. It glowed not with its old brilliance -of colour. He felt curiously hollow; nothing in either head or heart -until he came to Annette's last words. She wanted him to be happy. He -would be. He would be. The words set him stirring in a new way, -discovered for him a new direction, and stiffened him up for the -journey with a sternness that he had never known before. He was half -afraid of himself and yet proud. He felt curiously detached, -independent, and strong to face all that had weighed on him so -crushingly. . . . He noticed then that Annette had left him, and he -went in search of her. He found Serge just waking up, and felt a -sudden alarm. - -"Annette?" he said. - -"I thought she was with you." - -"So she was. But she left me only a few minutes ago." - -"Better find her then. She can't be gone far. I'm going to bathe. No -sign of the others?" - -"I haven't seen them." - -"All right. I'm going to bathe." - -In a few seconds Serge had stripped and ran swiftly across the grass, -took a great leap head-foremost over a bramble-bush and splashed into -the water. Bennett stood envying him. Serge looked so strong, and he -moved so beautifully and easily. - -He thought Annette must have gone to look for Minna, and walked slowly -into the woods. He had only gone a few yards when he half turned back. -He wanted to be alone. He half wanted to go and bathe with Serge, but -vanity forbade that, for he was ashamed that he could not swim. He -took Serge's prowess as a reproach to himself. That stung him into -moving, and he wandered down the path between the bracken until he -came to a rowan-tree in all the glory of its red berries. He stopped -and plucked a handful, thinking he would give them to Annette. He -passed on until he came to a little clearing full of wild flowers and -heather. These seemed to him more beautiful than the berries. He flung -them away and filled his hands with heather and wild flowers. - -Looking up he could see the river shining through the trees and rich -green woods and blue hills beyond. He moved towards the river. - -Presently he heard voices behind a hazel-tree and, peeping, he saw -Haslam and Minna sitting hand in hand, he murmuring, she smiling. Then -suddenly Haslam caught Minna to him and they kissed. - -Bennett stole away, his heart fluttering. What he had seen sent a -great emotion rushing through him, but soon it withered and became -disgust. He felt a strange futile anger against the couple, an anger -so absurd that it mocked him. He had idealised the whole of the Folyat -family, and to see Minna like that degraded her. He did not see her in -any ridiculous aspect. His conception of love was too boyishly lofty -for that, and yet beneath his anger and his feeling of outrage was the -sense of the ridiculous, which must accompany any intrusion into the -private affairs of another. - -Bennett had plenty of imagination, but he had not trained it to run in -harness with his observation. His imagination had, so far, only -coloured and inflamed the theories he had imbibed during his education -concerning human nature, and, as these theories nowhere met the facts, -he was perpetually being shocked by his observations. Having, as yet, -no experience, his theories remained unassailed. He believed that he -loved Gertrude Folyat with a pure and ennobling love, as a man should -love a woman; as, in fact, a man may love the Venus de Milo, a -creature of stone. A woman, according to Bennett's docile acceptance -of trite theory, must be a goddess of beauty, purity, and chastity, -with never a worldly desire or thought. The woman of his love, in -fine, must be the Virgin Mother. - -That Gertrude was ten years his senior made it all the easier for him -to raise her to this exalted position in his idea. Having achieved -this with her, without any reference to her wishes or desires, he had -manufactured a halo for each of her sisters as her attendant saints. -He had never kissed Gertrude except as a devout person kisses Saint -Peter's toe. He had dreamed of kisses, and had, with unholy joy, -conceived a horror of himself as a terrible and immoral young man, so -that his vanity also was implicated in this catastrophe of Minna's -downfall. What, at bottom, troubled him most of all was the obvious -truth that Minna kissed Basil Haslam because she liked it. - -Bennett had such a tussle with his reflections and emotions--he was -not far from calling them "the devil"--that he broke into a sweat, and -to seek air and coolness for his eyes he made straight for the bank of -the river. He had advanced only a few yards when he heard a voice -singing: - - _Bury me deeply when I am dead, - With, a stone at my feet and a cross at my head; - And bury me deep that I ne'er may return - To the scene of my true love--the brown Scottish burn._ - -And he heard a splashing of water and, hiding behind the huge trunk of -a beech, he looked and saw Annette swinging on the branch of a -chestnut tree, her feet dangling to the water and kicking and -splashing. She was naked. Her hair was wet and hung limp down to her -shoulders. She was as happy as a bird. - -Bennett stood rooted. His heart, his whole being melted, and turned -away reflections, troubled emotions, all power of thought. He gazed -and gazed, and knew that she was beautiful, swinging there under the -great leaves of the chestnut. Curiously he thought that she was not so -very unlike a boy. He was fascinated. Up and down she swung her -branch, scrambled to her feet and dived. . . . The spell was broken. -Bennett covered his face with his hands as he realised what he had -done. From the extreme of heat he turned very cold and shivered. He -found that he had let his heather and wild flowers fall, picked them -up, and rushed away, blindly. He lost himself and wandered for a long -time before he found again the grassy plot where they had lunched. At -the same moment Minna and Basil Haslam returned. Fry, Mary, and Serge -were sitting, and Annette was busy boiling the kettle for tea. -Entirely oblivious of every one else Bennett went straight up to -Annette and held out the wild flowers and heather. - -"I brought you these," he said, without looking at her. - -"The poor flowers are dead," replied Annette, "but the heather is -lovely. Thank you." - -"Thank you," echoed Bennett. - -Annette's hair was still down her back and wet. She caught him gazing -at it. - -"I had such a lovely swim," she said. - -"The woods," said Bennett, "are very beautiful." - -Annette was really grateful to him for giving her the flowers. No one -had ever done as much for her before. She said: - -"If you like you can row me home in the little boat." - -Bennett was filled with alarm and he gazed miserably at her. He longed -to accept, but he was terrified. He was roused from his dilemma by -Basil Haslam, who, overhearing Annette's remark, called out: - -"The dinghy's mine and Minna's." - -This he said for the benefit of Herbert Fry, who turned and looked, -dog-like, upward at Minna. - -A large chuckle escaped Serge. - -* * * - -In the evening, as they turned westward under a glorious sunset, -Bennett elected to sit in the bows of the bigger boat. Fry and Serge -rowed, and Annette and Minna sat in the stern. Bennett dreamed -vaguely. His blood ran warmly through his veins, his brain glowed, and -the wind and the water sang to him. He was satisfied as he had never -been. When he thought of Minna and Haslam it was with a drowsy, -delicious envy. To be together, gently gliding down the river with the -evening shadows chasing each other under the trees. To be together--in -a little boat--he and Annette . . . Annette . . . Annette . . . - -In her lap Annette fingered the heather and wild flowers that Bennett -had given her and smiled softly to herself. Serge saw her smile, and -said: - -"Happy?" - -"Oh! yes." - -To Bennett her voice sounded distant and very lovely, and it seemed to -him that she was speaking to him, for him. - -Presently they passed the little boat nestling by the bank under a -plane-tree. Mary called out: - -"You'll be late." - -There came no reply. - -They were late. It was half-past twelve before Minna reached home. The -household was asleep and Serge had stayed up for her. He said: - -"Hardly wise to be so late." - -"We missed the train." - -"Two or three. Just as well you didn't miss the last." - -Minna smiled. - -"Why?" - -"I don't think you ought to use Haslam as a decoy for Fry. He's too -good for it." - -"I think you're a beast, Serge." - -"Am I? We shall see." - -"Fry's married. Frederic told me." - -"I don't think that makes a ha'porth of difference--to you or to him." - -"It isn't your affair." - -"I agree." - -"And, anyhow, you're quite wrong. Good-night." - -"Good-night." - - - -XIX - -GERTRUDE - -_Nous mettons l'infini dans l'amour. Ce n'est pas la faute des -femmes._ - ANATOLE FRANCE. - -UPON a day Bennett Lawrie escaped early from his office, leaving his -day's work to be finished by a co-junior clerk on a promise to do as -much for him when he should require it. He was feeling very tired, -having had only a walk and two cigarettes for dinner, a practice so -common among junior clerks that they have a name for it--Flag Hash. -Twice during Gertrude's absence he had taken Annette and her mother to -the theatre--three dress-circle seats at five shillings--a heavy drain -upon his income, which was now one pound fifteen shillings a week, -paid monthly. His mother knew nothing of the advance of five shillings -a week that he had obtained on the third application with the plea -that he was engaged to be married. That helped a little, but, even so, -his position was serious, and at moments made him feel very sick at -heart. He had been making efforts to save money when Mrs. Folyat's -expression of regret that she had not been to the theatre plunged him -into the rash offer to pay for seats. He had no thought but that she -would pay for two of them at least. But no; Mrs. Folyat regarded it as -the feminine privilege to enjoy entertainment at the expense of the -masculine pocket. - -Further cause had Bennett for anxiety in that his correspondence with -Gertrude had dwindled from the devoted daily letter to an effusion -with great difficulty squeezed out twice a week. That her letter had -come at longer and longer intervals comforted him not at all. He had -never asked testimony of devotion from his betrothed; it was enough -that she should so far stoop as to be engaged to him. . . . Also, as -he walked to the station through the dark railway arches, through Town -Hall Square with its statues of John Bright, the late Bishop, the -Prince Consort, and a local philanthropic sweater, past the Infirmary, -he was dogged by an unhappy realisation that it gave him no pleasure -to be going to meet Gertrude. She had written him a romantic little -note: - - -"Dear, I am coming back to you. I have no thought but for you. I shall -arrive by the 5.45. Yours, G. F." - - -Bennett rehearsed the meeting. He would greet her warmly and with -dignity. He would kiss her hand; not her cheek. He would then silently -convey that he was fully aware of his delinquences, but asked no -pardon for them. Scoundrel as he had shown himself, he would have her -"pass on and thank God she was rid of a knave." . . . However, he -reflected that upon former occasions his most eloquent silence had -conveyed nothing at all to Gertrude, and he began to rehearse the -scene from another standpoint. He would say; "You bade me come. I have -come. In spite of what has happened, in spite of my sins of thought -and deed, I will be loyal. I will keep my troth." That was better, but -not altogether appropriate from a station platform. He was still -rehearsing when the train came in. He stood by the engine thinking -that there he would be sure not to miss his quarry. There was a -considerable crowd to meet the train, for in those days a journey from -London was an important affair, and travellers were welcomed by their -nearest and dearest, glad that they had escaped the perils of the way, -hopeful that they had not succumbed to its fatigues, and mindful of -the presents that would be in bag or trunk. . . . Bennett Lawrie -thought not at all of presents. He was only bothered because he had -not yet discovered the right mode of address. - -The image of Gertrude that he had always chivalrously borne upon his -mind, and what he was pleased to call his heart, bore very little -resemblance to her features and figure. It happened that in London she -had bought a new hat of a new fashion, so that in the throng he did -not recognise her. She saw his blank eyes upon her and petulantly -walked past him without giving a sign. She also had been rehearsing -their meeting, but she had solved all difficulties by relying upon the -dog-like devotion that he had always given her. He would, she had -thought, come forward with his sad eyes glowing, take her by the hand -and with that solemn dignity of his stoop, kiss, and, if he lingered -long enough over it, be kissed in return. He would take her baggage, -and carry it, as he always carried her parcels or her umbrella, as -though it were a Divine trust, and they would take a four-wheeled cab. -By that time one or other would have found the correct words or the -inevitable gesture of love, and all would be as it had been. - -Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but, where the heart is not -very deeply implicated, absence sometimes has the effect of driving -love out altogether. Lovers like to vow that they will never change, -but they vow the impossible, wherein lies half their pleasure. As -Gertrude Folyat had gone farther and farther away from her boy-lover, -she had seen him dwindling in stature, but with a microscopic clarity. -Having a very human dislike of seeing things as they were presented to -her she pumped up a sea of sentiment, dived into it and saw blurred -the newly-revealed figure. That sufficed until in the gaieties of -Folkestone--she never questioned the gaiety of what was presented to -her for pleasure--and the excitement and opulence of life at Sydenham, -near the Crystal Palace, she was able to forget him altogether. It had -been in a sudden dread that he might be injured and morose when she -next saw him that on the eve of her departure she had written to bid -him come to meet her. She thought that would please him. As soon as -she had done so she regretted it. It seemed to place him in the -stronger position which she had always striven to reserve for herself. -Her visits had shaken her resignation to marriage with him, for she -had been staying with snobs and was ashamed that he should be only a -clerk, but all the same she wished to cling to him to avoid solicitude -and the horrible possibility which had begun to shadow her of no -marriage at all. She told herself that she loved Bennett, and the -thought of love was quite enough for her. She never doubted that the -thing itself was hers. She was not very intelligent. - -It gave her a curious pleasure to ignore Bennett's presence on the -station platform. She had never thought of being angry with him, but -when anger took possession of her she welcomed and fed it, for it -solved her problem. She would overwhelm him with her displeasure and -enslave him with a tender reconciliation. - -She drove home alone in a four-wheeled cab to Fern Square and enjoyed -an extremely pleasant evening with her mother talking about the -William Folyats and the Folkestone Folyats, their friends and their -refined manner of living. The house in Fern Square struck her as dingy -and undistinguished, and she did not trouble to conceal her -impression. She had brought a present for each member of her family, -except Minna, and, being rather warmly received, complained that no -one had come to meet her. - -"We thought Bennett darling would be there," said Minna. - -"Was he not?" asked Mrs. Folyat. - -Bennett arrived to answer the question. He too had found in anger the -solvent of his qualms. He was one of those people who suffer cold -tortures in sudden glimpses of their dead selves, and as he had paced -up and down the station long after the crowd to meet the London train -had dispersed he saw himself in his old relation with his betrothed, -callow, docile, sheep-like; in a word, unfledged. The day on the river -with Serge and Annette--(the rest counted for nothing in his memory of -it)--had wrought a greater change in him that he knew. The shrill -resentment at his old self that suddenly swept through and took -possession of him was his first intimation of it. It was rather more -than he could bear, and he shifted the burden of his animosity from -himself to Gertrude. If she had not come by the train, well and good. -She might perhaps have been kept in London, though a telegram could -have saved him from the discomfort of a long wait at the station. He -had risked incurring the displeasure of his senior at the office to -please her. If she had come and had not looked out for him, that was -not lightly to be borne. His anger was just. She should be made to -feel that he was not--so he phrased it--"dirt beneath her feet." He -resolved that he would not go to Fern Square until she wrote to him. - -This resolve oozed away almost as soon as it was made. He had no money -to pay for an evening's entertainment, and, if he did not go to Fern -Square he must perforce go home and spend the evening with his mother -and sisters. - -The hobgoblin opened the door to him. - -"Has Miss Gertrude returned?" he asked. - -"Oopstairs," said the hobgoblin, and she shuffled away to the kitchen, -leaving him to close the door. - -He went upstairs to find the whole family assembled, with the -exception of Frederic, who was at the Clibran-Bells. They all seemed -so jolly that he felt that he had done wrong in coming and wished he -had adhered to his first resolve. He felt that he was intruding, and -by sheer force of the numbers present his old part of the humble, -devoted and grateful lover was pressed upon him. In no other rôle -could he find room in the company. Once again circumstances had played -into Gertrude's hands and she became, what to her family she had -always been, the romantic mistress of an unhappy lowly lover. - -Before very long their own skill in the playing of these parts and the -general feeling of the family had driven them out of the room into the -peace and solitude of the study. There silence fell upon them and they -stole uneasy glances at each other. Gertrude sat in her father's great -chair, Bennett stood with his back against the mantelpiece under the -portrait of Gertrude's paternal grandmother. - -"I went to meet you," said Bennett at length. - -"I didn't see you." - -"If you had looked for me you must have seen me. I am tall enough." - -There was considerable irritation behind his words. - -"Am I then," said Gertrude, "am I so very short that you could not see -me?" - -"I waited," returned Bennett. "You didn't." - -"I did. I waited quite five minutes." - -"I waited half an hour." - -Gertrude took her courage in both hands and said: - -"If you had cared for me, you would have seen me." - -"I waited," mumbled Bennett, obstinately. - -They were silent again. Gertrude began to feel uneasy. They had -quarrelled before, but always when she had touched on his affection -for her his opposition had been broken. She could not take his -stubbornness seriously even now. A little maliciously she was -thinking: - -"After all he is ten years younger than I am." - -Unhappily for her, Bennett, with more malice, was thinking: - -"After all, she is ten years older than I am." - -For the first time he had become dimly aware that the advantage lay -with himself. He said: - -"I left the office earlier than I had any right to do to meet you. You -could not have looked for me." - -"Why will you go on arguing about it?" - -"I've no wish to argue." - -He only wished to avoid silence, to avoid facing what was irresistibly -being borne in upon him, that all his relations with this woman had -been a phantasm, a thing of the mists of yesterday. It was a hateful -shock to all his theories, to all his ideals of constancy and -single-minded devotion. He had worshipped this woman, set her--(at her -own suggestion, though he did not know it)--on a pedestal, and lo! a -day had come when she was no longer there. The pedestal remained, but -the goddess was spirited away. He was very unhappy. - -Gertrude was exasperated. She could have slapped him with infinite -pleasure. She tapped with her foot on the ground. - -"You are being too ridiculous," she said. - -"Am I ever anything else?" returned Bennett, with a sudden plunge into -self-torment. - -Pat came the reply: - -"Never!" - -Bennett felt savage, turned on her and cried: - -"Now I know what you think of me." - -Gertrude was sorely tempted to let him think so, but she had in mind -the difficulty of confessing to the women upstairs, her mother and -three sisters, her return to unplighted maidenhood. She could not face -that. She began to mop at her eyes, ate her words humbly, and declared -that he had made her utterly miserable. She had so looked forward to -seeing him again. It had made her so happy to be with him in the study -once more, like old times, and all he could do was to snarl and growl; -and if he was going to be like that before, what would he be like -after. . . . Bennett pacified her as best he could, abused himself, -said that he was not worthy to touch the hem of her garment, and, just -as she was prepared for the final redeeming sinking into tenderness, -amazed her--(himself too)--by announcing that he must go and help -Annette prepare the supper. - -He left her gasping. She hated him in that moment. Never, never, would -she forgive him. All the same she followed him. He was almost as -aghast at his conduct as she, and it was a relief to him to see her -enter the kitchen before he had time to explain his entry to Annette. -He stood and smiled weakly--a little vacantly--and, with a forced -joviality, he said: "We--we've come to help you with the supper." -Gertrude took his arm and said, "Yes, she had come to show Annette how -to make a real Indian curry as Uncle William had it done, according to -a native recipe, at Sydenham." Annette explained that she was not -making a curry, and had not the ingredients for it, but she said how -glad she would be of their help, as she was rather late. Bennett and -Gertrude selected activities which were necessarily separate. Bennett -chose to help at the oven. Gertrude took the heaped-up tray into the -dining-room. - -Bennett was filled with an extraordinary elation as he saw her go. He -had asserted himself more forcibly than he had intended, and, so far -as he could see, with a success beyond all anticipation. It went to -his head, he brandished a piece of bread on the end of a toasting-fork -and chanted to himself: - -"I shall be twenty next March, twenty-one next year, twenty-two the -year after--twenty-nine in . . . But there. How old are you Annette?" - -"Nineteen." - -"Have you been confirmed?" - -"Of course. Ages ago. At school." - -"I wasn't confirmed until I was sixteen. It made a great change in my -life." - -"You must be very glad to have Gertrude back again." - -"I am." He let the toasting-fork drop against the grate. Annette -rushed at him: - -"You mustn't burn it. It's for pa's toast-and-water. It must never be -burned." - -The tricksy spirit which is ever lying in wait for the moment when a -man is swollen with vanity pounced on Bennett, and out of buffoonery -and high spirits he dodged Annette and held the toasting-fork out of -her reach. She clutched at it; he dodged again. In her eagerness she -tripped and lunged against him. His arm went round her shoulder and he -caught her arm. . . . They stood like that for a second and then he -found that he could not let her go. His hand gripped tight and hurt -her, but she too had passed from laughing excitement to another -strange and melting emotion. . . . - -She could see the door; he could not. She saw Gertrude, and wrenched -away. He followed her, and in a curious strangled voice that he hardly -knew for his own he cried: - -"Annette . . . I . . ." - -But Annette had rushed out of the kitchen and he was alone with -Gertrude. He picked up the toasting-fork and held the bread before the -glowing coals. - -"What are you doing?" asked Gertrude. - -"Making toast for your father's toast-and-water." - -"So I see. And what was Annette doing?" - -"Annette was showing me how to make it." - -Gertrude drew herself up heroically, and with what she took for -dramatic intensity she said: - -"Bennett, do you love me?" - -"No," said he, startled into truth. - -Gertrude sat down with emphatic suddenness. His answer had crumpled -her up, but also it acted boomerang-fashion, flew back and knocked the -wind out of Bennett. (In a world of liars truth always acts like -that.) He was the first to recover and he approached Gertrude with -contrition. - -"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't feel myself to-night. Queer things -going on inside me and outside. It isn't quite true what I said just -now. I do love you. I do, really. But love isn't what I thought it -was. I don't know what it is, but it isn't what I thought it was." - -Miserably enough Gertrude murmured: - -"Are you in love with Annette?" - -Hotly and indignantly he answered: - -"No, I am not." - -"But you . . ." - -"I was not making love to Annette. It was an accident." - -Gertrude jumped at the occasion for magnanimity and said: - -"I believe you." - -"Thank you." His heart leaped within him, and privately to his own -innermost conscience he whispered delightedly: - -"I am in love with Annette; in love, in love, in love with Annette." - -This new idea, the admission of the new fact, so absorbed him that he -became oblivious of Gertrude. He had not even any regret for the -months of folly through which she had dragged him. He was ashamed, not -because he had turned from Gertrude, but because he had desired -Annette. - -True love can never tolerate secrecy. The true lover must cry his -emotion from the house-tops, for a new glory has come to the world and -it is well that all men should know of it. - -A prophet of those days has said: "The woman should not venture to -hope for or think for perfectness in him she would love, but _he_ -should believe the maiden to be purity and perfection absolute and -unqualified."--The shadow of that prophet had been on Gertrude and -Bennett, unknown to them, and they had gone to the God of Love and -asked him to make up the prescription, with this result, that with one -little word of truth he had kicked down the slender props of their -castle in Spain and brought him to the reality of himself, her to -emptiness. She suffered most, for she had a highly developed instinct -of possession, lived altogether in her possessions, and was left like -a dismantled hulk when any of them were taken from her. - -She wept copiously, and Bennett tried to comfort her. He kissed her, -and found a sort of pleasure in the salt savour of her tears. He -soothed her at last, and with more common sense than he had -anticipated she said only: - -"You won't let anybody know just yet." - -She drew the trumpery little engagement-ring he had given her--(she -had not worn it at Folkestone or Sydenham)--from her finger and laid -it on the table. He took it up, and after a moment's hesitation, -restored it to its place. - -"I want you," he said, returning to the old romantic mood that had -served them so well in the past, "I want you always to be my friend." - -"Always. Always." replied Gertrude with no less fervour, and she took -his hand and pressed it against her cheek and kissed it. - -She was smiling and cheerful when Annette returned. Bennett took -another slice of bread and toasted it a beautiful brown, perfect for -the toast-and-water of Annette's father. - - - -XX - -EDUCATION - -_As the great end of human society is to become wiser and better, this -ought, therefore, to be the principal view of every man, in every -station of life._ - THE BACHELOR'S CLUB - -BENNETT LAWRIE'S education began at the age of six, when, with his -sister, Phoebe, he was every morning taken by Tibby to a little dame's -school where he learned the alphabet, the multiplication table, -writing, and the stories of the Bible. He was also allowed to draw and -taught to embroider little mats with rough silk and to make balls with -pieces of wool. In five years he made a great many balls, but he was -not allowed to play with them, for they were given to the poor. - -When he was ten he passed from this establishment to Wellington House, -where there were no girls, but a great many rough boys who frightened -him. Among them were his two elder brothers, who afforded him no -protection but rather supplied the others with material for teasing. -Bennett could not understand that small boys should fight merely out -of bluster and cockiness. He only wanted to fight when rage mastered -him, and then he was out to kill. He only had one fight at that school -and that was enough, for he cut open his adversary's eye and tore the -lobe of his ear away from his scalp. Thereafter he suffered from -collective rather than individual bullying. - -He learned arithmetic as far as fractions, algebra as far as surds, -the first, second and third books of Euclid, English composition and -literature, French grammar, composition and easy translations, Latin -grammar, composition and easy translations, Scripture (the books of -Samuel, Kings, and the Acts of the Apostles in rotation), geography, -history (Tudor and Stuarts alternatively), elocution and dancing. -Without being in the least interested in anything, he had no -difficulty in memorising for the purposes of each day the tasks that -were set before him. He was said to be intelligent, industrious and -eager in his work and generally satisfactory in his conduct. At the -end of each year he found himself with a prize, though he knew not how -or why, and his mother became quite amiable to him. There remained one -member of her husband's family with whom she had not (as yet) -quarrelled, namely Bennett's Aunt Louisa, an ex-governess who had -retired upon receipt of a legacy and taken up her residence in our -town in order to be near her brothers, James the failure, whom she -loved, and Keith the successful merchant, whom she both feared and -disliked. This gentle lady offered to pay Bennett's fees, twelve -guineas a year, at the Grammar School, and thither accordingly he -repaired with a brand new handbag and a quaking heart to find himself -one of five hundred boys, of all shapes and sizes and classes and -nationalities and religions--the town in little. In his first term he -was in the Lower Third Form, and sat between the son of a cab-driver -and the son of a millionaire mill-owner. - -It does not matter very much what the young are taught, but it does -matter enormously who teaches them. The curriculum of the Grammar -School was the curriculum of Wellington House administered in larger -and more unpleasant doses. Games were not compulsory, and only one -hour per week was allowed for them. What the parents wanted and what -they got was a good, hard, thorough grounding and no nonsense. There -may have been an ideal in the place once upon a time--(it was founded -by a Bishop)--but that ideal had produced no offspring, and there were -no little ideals to grow up with Bennett's generation. Science had -been added to the available subjects to be crammed into the boys' -heads, for the voice of Huxley was loud in the land; but though -Bennett devoted two hours a week to physics and chemistry, he never -got beyond a vague notion that light and heat were not all they -seemed, and a jocular idea that chemistry meant making a bad smell. - -He was moved up regularly once a year, but he learned no history -beyond George III, he devoted four terms to the study of the Acts of -the Apostles, he dropped Latin in favour of German; having learned by -heart the rivers and capitals of Germany, France, Italy and Spain, and -drawn maps of all of them, he left geography behind, and having -studied the Tudors and the Stuarts until he was sick of them, he was -suddenly, by promotion, switched away from England, and directed to -apply himself to the Thirty Years' and the Seven Years' Wars in -Germany. Having partially grasped what they were about he was promoted -into the middle of the French Revolution. Robespierre was not beheaded -when he left school, and he never connected the upheaval in France -with the rise of Napoleon. - -His instruction in languages was entirely grammarian, and he had no -notion but that the works of Corneille, Racine, Goethe and Schiller -and Gustav Freytag might have been written expressly to be annotated -by the various Masters and Bachelors of Arts whose names appeared on -the title-pages of his text-books. He drew skeletons, profiles of -girls and caricatures in the margins, and beyond cramming enough of -the notes and the dictionary to satisfy his masters he took no further -interest in them. He was never asked to do so. - -His career and mental development were exactly those of ninety-five -per cent. of the boys who passed through the institution, except that -he suffered more from fear. Fear was the directing force of the -machinery. The High Master was a bearded man with a huge voice, with -which he bullied his assistants. The senior members of the staff -bullied the junior members, and, without being given any standard of -right and wrong, the boys were punished, punished, punished: -detentions, impositions, enforced drills, thrashings. The school was -enormously successful, and everybody was immensely satisfied with it, -though there was never a boy grown man who could look back with -pleasure on the years spent in its toils. There were periodical -attempts made to pump up the spirit of loyalty--_esprit de corps_--but -they always flagged under the general listlessness. The boys -understood that they attended day after day to be educated, a process -which they regarded as extremely unpleasant, as indeed it was, and -only tolerable in that its end was always in sight. The clever boys -who were kept until they were nineteen and stuffed for Oxford and -Cambridge and the professions were pitied rather than admired. There -was nothing admirable in Oxford and Cambridge to those who knew -nothing of them, save the second and third-class men who were so poor -as to be glad of the miserable pittance granted them for the -instruction of generations of Bennett Lawries and the sons of -cab-drivers and millionaire mill-owners. - -After his first term in the Fifth Form Mrs. Lawrie quarrelled with -Bennett's aunt Louisa. Her subsidy was withdrawn, and Bennett left -school with a mind untrained except in memory, and stored only with a -curious litter of knowledge absolutely unrelated to the facts of his -existence. - -Education, like charity, should begin at home. Bennett had spent -eleven years in being educated, but he had been taught nothing at all -of the place in which he lived. He had not been told why it was, what -it was, nor for what purpose it existed and grew and expanded. He knew -nothing of its history except that it had once had a Latin name and -had been occupied by the Romans, and that Oliver Cromwell had passed -through or near it with his Roundheads. Everything that was told him -was presented to him in such a desiccated form that his gorge rose at -it and he could swallow it only with an effort. In a city of Puritans -it seemed meet and right that education, like religion and life, -should be made as unpleasant as possible. - -The only real education that Bennett ever got was in his daily walk to -and fro over the two miles that separated his home from the school. He -could cover the distance in three ways: either he could go through -slums and under factories and engineering shops along the low ground, -or he could take the high ground behind the Albert Station and soon -come to suburbs and the streets where the middle classes gathered, or -he could pass through the Jews' quarter down by the Assize Courts and -the gaol. Most often he chose the third way. The mysterious, -large-headed, thick-featured creatures with their oily, beady eyes -exercised a strange fascination over him. He liked their Kosher shops, -their bills written in weird characters, the women with their hard -stiff wigs, the men with their queer gnarled legs and their feet -loosely hinged at the ankles. He always looked at their feet, because -a boy at school had once pointed out to him how the Jews always wore -their boots down on the outside edge of the sole. He never knew why -the Jews were there in such large numbers, but they interested him. -They were romantic. All the cleverest boys at school were Jews. They -seemed to learn everything with an extraordinary facility. . . . -Almost his only friend at school was a Jew named Kraus, whose father -and mother were in Roumania, and at intervals they would send him over -a hamper containing queer fishes and black olives and rose-leaf jam, -and then Bennett would go home with Kraus and have an orgy. Once Kraus -gave him some unleavened bread, and Bennett kept it as a curiosity, -and frightened himself with pretending that the tragedy of the -Passover was come again, and that the angels would not mark his house -because he was not a Jew and had no right to the bread. - -Kraus had an aunt who was a musician and a singer. She sang so sweetly -that Bennett was moved to tears and fell violently in love with her, -though he would not admit it to himself, for all thought of love -disgusted him. It was Kraus who revealed to Bennett the mystery of his -birth, and in the filthiest way possible explained to him the process -by which he had his being. It took Bennett some time to recover from -the despair into which the revelation threw him, but it never occurred -to him to doubt the truth of his friend's statements. The filthiness -was in the world and not in Kraus. They became more intimate, and -their talk was almost always dirty, though innocent. It was a -swaggering pose, their way of equalising matters with the bawdiness of -the world that lay before them. - -Bennett had no corrective. No grown person ever held out a hand to -save him from his dark thoughts and uneasy desires when they came to -him, nor troubled to enquire into what pitfalls he might be tumbling. -Instructed by Kraus he went the way of all flesh and lost his peace of -mind and the bloom of his boyhood. All around him he saw darkness and -ugliness, but never any beauty. The one place in his daily walks that -his imagination fastened on was the gaol, and he dreamed of prisoners -and policemen and arrestments. - -His friendship with Kraus lasted for three years, during which Bennett -fell in and out of love (with absurd chivalry and nobility) with his -sisters' friends. The rupture came when one day Kraus filled the whole -of their walk home with an account--largely invented--of an adventure -with a loose factory girl whom he had encountered in the street -seeking whom she might devour. A black abyss yawned at Bennett's feet, -his brain whirled, and he said: - -"You'll go to Hell." - -Kraus replied with an obscene jingle which they had often chanted -together, and offered to call for Bennett that night. - -"I don't ever want to see you again," said Bennett, and he washed his -hands of Kraus. Thereafter for the short remaining period of his term -at school he avoided the Jewish quarter and took the high road through -the most respectable-seeming middle-class streets. - -The hours of the school were five, three in the morning and two in the -afternoon, with three-quarters of an hour for lunch. This was not -provided eatably in the school-building, and as, for most of the boys, -the mid-day meal was the most serious of the day, they went, according -to their means, to the various restaurants in the locality. Bennett -was allowed sixpence a day, and used to repair to one of three or four -cheap eating-houses, all in cellars. Here he saw men and youths of the -type with which his future life would be spent--warehousemen and -clerks, all scraping as much off their food allowance as they could to -pay for beer and betting and billiards and tobacco. They were all dull -and timid and white-faced, foul-mouthed very many of them, and the -conditions under which their food was placed before them were so -uninviting that they hurried through their meals as quickly as -possible. On the whole Bennett envied them because they were not at -school and were independent and doing work for which they were -paid. . . Very often he felt too timid or too listless to eat, and he -saved the sixpence for his own purposes. When he did that he found it -very hard to keep awake during the two hours in the afternoon, and -very often he had his homework increased by a long imposition. - -In the holidays he was required to read one of the romances of Sir -Walter Scott with a view to examination on them when the school -re-opened. This begot in him a loathing for Sir Walter from which he -never recovered. He was always being examined--every term, every -midterm; in some subjects, once a week. As information had been forced -into him piecemeal, so piecemeal it was pumped out of him. . . . -Perhaps this is a wise provision. Perhaps, having fed their little -boys' minds with bran for weeks on end, it is merciful of the -pedagogues at the end of term to administer an emetic. Every term the -examinations cleaned Bennett out, and by regular repetition of this -process he was no further on at the end of five years than he was at -the beginning. They even tried to rob him of his delight in -Shakespeare by making him learn the stupid hotch-potch of the notes of -some Cambridge pundit instead of helping him to discover the glory of -the verses and confirming him in his taste for it. - -Nothing was ever done to help him to understand the processes of his -own existence, or to direct the forces stirring in him, or to pick his -way through the whirling maze of divers emotions in which every now -and then he lost himself. He was affectionate; no appeal was made to -his affections. He was romantic; no food was forthcoming for his -hunger. Spiritually and emotionally he was starved; mentally he was -grossly and unsuitably fed. His was the average condition of the -average boy in the most touching, perhaps the most beautiful period of -the average man's life. - -He was told that he must be confirmed. Like the minister who prepared -him, he understood nothing of the significance of the ceremony, but -contact with one or two religiously minded young men released the -pent-up emotion in him and it rushed out in such a flood that he was -like to drown. He clutched at the first cause that came to hand, -turned to the first manly and inspiring personality that he -encountered, the rector of St. Saviour's, and he embraced the High -Church creed and all its tenets, prejudices, and shibboleths. - -Only an accident had saved him from the worst consequences of his -education. - - - -XXI - -MRS. ENTWISTLE'S HEART - -_God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman._ - RICHARD FEVEREL. - -WITH the best intentions in the world Francis could not overcome the -inevitable dislike with which Frederic's mere presence inspired him. -He could not bring himself to speak more than three words to him or to -make any inquiry into his affairs. Frederic also suffered under the -constraint of the secret they shared, and relieved the situation by -absenting himself as much as possible from the house. His fiancée made -that easy by her extensive demands upon his time and he became more a -member of her family than of his own. - -Francis kept his word with Annie Lipsett, and every week sent her ten -shillings, and, knowing that his wife opened his letters, got her to -write, when she had anything to say, to Serge. His conscience was very -uneasy about the whole affair, but he knew that if he did not do what -he was doing no one else would, and he could not bring himself to -righteous acceptance of the conclusions of his premises, that, after -all, the girl had brought it on herself, and, like hundreds of others, -must fight through the consequences alone and unaided. - -"If I knew the hundreds of others," he said to himself, "I could not -possibly help them all. I could not afford it. . . . Can I afford to -help this young woman? . . . I cannot, but I must." - -He submitted to this moral imperative, but he could not away with the -idea that he was encouraging immorality. That idea became fixed, an -obsession. It worried him so much that he decided to go and see the -young woman and make quite sure as to the state of her mind, to -demonstrate if necessary that though things were being made -comfortable and easy for her in this world she could not hope to -escape the punishment for her sin in the next. - -Accordingly one Saturday he resolved to take the ten shillings himself -instead of sending them by post. Annie Lipsett was staying in a farm -labourer's cottage near a village some fifteen miles away to the -south. It was a keen autumn day when Francis walked along the lanes -between hedges aflame with hips and haws and red blackberry leaves, -and green with holly berries, and he asked himself why he did not -devote every Saturday afternoon to a walk in the country. The cold air -filled his lungs and the wind blew in his beard and brought the colour -to his round cheeks. The trees were burning with colour, the sun shone -scarcely warm through the soft mist that lay over the country-side. -. . . Decidedly, he must often take such walks and bring Annette. How -she would love the orchards, glowing with red apples and plums, and -yellow with pears, and the cows and the green fields and the little -rivers. Annette would love them all. They would make a habit of it, -every Saturday, and they would see all the seasons come and live and -pass. - -As he approached the cottage where Annie Lipsett was staying he felt -less interested in the state of her mind and more concerned to see -herself and discover how she was keeping in health. Health, he -thought, was most important, perhaps more important than anything -else. "Grant us in health and wealth long to live." He recited the -words aloud, and his mind commented that wealth meant well-being, not -a fine house and raiment and a substantial account at the bankers. -That struck him with all the force of an original discovery, and he -began to think that his life was not perhaps such a complete failure -as he had grown used to thinking it. His arrival at the gate of the -cottage cut short his speculations, and he wrenched himself back to -the problem immediately before him, the bringing of this sinful soul -to repentance. Yes; he must make her see that her sins would only be -forgiven her on condition of full repentance. He felt fully convinced -of it in that moment, and did his best to make himself feel miserable -in spite of the invitation to happiness extended to him by the little -grass path leading up to the door of the white cottage, and the -Michaelmas daisies and autumn lilies and purple asters growing in the -borders and the heavily laden fruit trees in the tiny orchard. - -He walked up the grass path and knocked at the low oaken door. In the -house he heard a bustling and a rustling, and presently the door was -opened to him by the woman of the house. She was enormously fat, -red-faced and comely. She said: - -"Tha can coom in. Annie be oot in't fields gatherin' noots. Tha'll be -Mr. Folyat. Tha's a gradely mon. Coom in." - -Francis followed her into the little low oak-beamed room, spick and -span and clean as a new pin. There was a picture of Queen Victoria on -the walls, five texts, and a grocer's almanac, horribly reproducing in -oleographic colour a pre-Raphaelite picture of Christ knocking at a -door. The woman, Mrs. Entwistle, brewed a pot of tea and chattered: - -"She be that well, tha'd think she were going to make no more fuss -than a beast. Eeh! The way t' bloom 'ave coom to her cheeks and 't -light to 'er eyes ye'd say a woman was all t' better for carryin'. -. . ." - -Francis began to take the same delight in the enormous woman that had -come to him from the sights of his walk. She was so sane and -comfortable. - -"Eeh," she said, "It was a good thing to get 'er away from 'er mother. -I never could do wi' them stringy little women. A 'ard time? 'Course -she's 'ad a 'ard time. So's everybody, but you don't want the world to -go grizzlin about it." - -Annie came in. She was very pretty, with a new soft pride in her eyes. -She was very big. She took Francis's hand and clung to it, and with -eyes and voice together she said: - -"Thank you." - -"Glad to see you, my dear," said he. "Glad to see you looking so -well." - -She sat down. They had tea, and when they had done Francis intimated -that he wished to speak to Annie alone. Mrs. Entwistle took down a -yoke from the wall and went off to fetch water from the well. Francis -hugged his knee and read several times over a text which ran: "Beloved -now are we, the sons of God." It was so illuminated that it was -difficult to read: _we_ looked like _me_, and _sons_ like _guns_. Then -he asked if he might smoke. - -"Surely," said Annie. - -Francis lit his pipe and the tobacco tasted very good. - -"You have been happy here," he said. - -"Oh, yes. Very happy." - -"I've brought you your ten shillings." - -"Thank you." - -He gave her the coin and she put it in a little purse. Francis found -himself at a standstill. He forced himself to speak. He was alarmed at -the quiescence of his conscience under the influence of Mrs. Entwistle -and the garden and the radiant thankfulness in Annie's face. Her -gratitude to him made it very difficult for him to perform what he -conceived to be his duty. A humorous gleam shot through his brain, and -he began to think himself a little absurd; but he pricked his -conscience and it stifled the gleam. He looked very serious as he -said: - -"I suppose--I hope you realise that you have no right to be happy. You -are bringing a child into the world in sin . . ." - -He could not go on. He saw that he had hurt the girl to the quick. - -"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly. "It is very difficult. I only wanted -to be sure that you realised, that you knew, that--that . . ." - -With bowed head and with her hands in her lap, Annie said in a low -voice: - -"I do know all that, sir. I thought that myself, sir, when I first -come. Every night I cried because I was so wicked, and I thought I -should never be forgiven, and mother had said such awful things to me. -But Mr. Folyat came . . ." - -"Frederic?" - -"No, sir, Mr. Serge. He comes every Saturday. He paints all the -afternoon and then comes here in the evening. Sometimes he walks a -great many miles. He come and said I must never have any thought in my -head that wasn't happy, that I must never for a single instant let -myself be afraid, for the sake of the child. He said everything that -happened to me happened to the child too. And I've tried and I have -been happy, so I know it's true. He says: 'What's done is done, and -people aren't wicked all the time or good all the time.' I don't -understand everything he says, but I always feel better when he comes, -and I don't think of anything but it. I want it to love me . . ." - -"Of course, of course," said Francis. "It is very important for you to -be well, but you must not imagine . . ." - -"I couldn't take money from you, sir, if you thought me wicked. I have -been wicked, but I'm not wicked any longer. I couldn't do--what I did, -ever again. I couldn't be so silly . . ." - -Francis thought to himself: "I must make her appreciate the peril -through which her soul has passed. . . . She seems to be leaving her -soul out of consideration altogether. I must make her see that she has -a soul and can only find true happiness in its salvation through -. . ." Once more he drew back from the contemplation of difficulties -which he felt were too intricate for him. He said: - -"My dear, be sure I think no ill of you. I only desired, my only -thought was . . . is . . . has been to secure you as far as possible -from the temporal consequences of your--er--betrayal." He breathed -heavily. Then he fell back on his natural candour and added: "I came -meaning to say a great deal, but I find that I have nothing to say. I -find it quite impossible to take a professional view of your -situation. You must forgive me. I cannot help feeling that I have been -guilty of an impertinence." - -Annie still hung her head and plucked at her fingers. She looked at -the clock and said: - -"Mr. Serge ought to be here now, sir. He's generally here before this. -There aren't many gentlemen like Mr. Serge, are there, sir?" - -"I hardly know," replied Francis. "I hardly know, but my experience of -the world has been very limited. . . . Do you tend the garden -yourself?" - -"Yes, sir. I help Mrs. Entwistle. I've learned such a lot about the -garden since I've been here." - -"I had a garden, once, in my old living." He described the garden at -St. Withans, and the exercise of visualising the lawns and borders and -the orchard under the church-tower and waking the faint echo of his -old joy in it won him back to greater confidence. He talked of flowers -and bees and birds until there came a knock at the door, when, with -joyful alacrity, Annie hurried to open it. Serge came in with -paint-box and sketch-book strapped together and slung over his -shoulder. He nodded to his father and sat down by the table. Annie -brewed him fresh tea and he said: - -"Jolly place this?" - -"Delightful," replied Francis. - -"Don't you think she's looking well?" - -"Very. I should hardly have known her again." - -"She's in good hands. Mrs. Entwistle has taken her to her heart--me -too, and if you come often enough she'll find room for you. It's -delightfully warm and comfortable and roomy. I never knew such a -heart. You meet all sorts of delightful people in it, all the nicest -people in the Bible, and hundreds of children, and everybody loves -everybody else. Don't they Annie?" - -Annie blushed: - -"That's only Mr. Serge's nonsense, Mr. Folyat. He goes on talking like -that until Mrs. Entwistle shakes with laughter so that the chair -you're sitting in creaks. . . . Have you had a good day, Mr. Serge?" - -"You shall tell me." Serge produced his sketches and Annie looked at -them. - -"That's a lovely one," she said. - -"May I see it?" asked Francis. - -She handed him a sheet of paper on which was a drawing of a baby in an -apple-tree with the wind blowing in its hair and bringing new wonder -into its starry eyes. - -"Mr. Serge does me one every week," said Annie simply. "I keep them -all." - -Francis held it up close to his face and peered over the top of it at -Serge. Very solemnly he returned the drawing to Annie. . . . A moment -or two later he leaned forward and said: - -"I can remember you when you were like that, Serge. It's a long time -ago, and so many things have happened since then. You were very big -and strong, and you used to laugh a great deal. . . . I remember your -being ill, and then, when you were a little older, I remember your -asking me all sorts of questions that I couldn't answer. And then, -quite suddenly, you weren't a baby any longer and then you became a -boy . . ." - -"And then I went away. That is the whole history of any father and any -son. Queer, isn't it? . . . And then we never met again until we came -across each other in Mrs. Entwistle's heart." - -Annie looked puzzled. There were several moments of silence, warm and -comforting and, to Francis, very sweet. Serge laughed. - -"After this," he said, "we may expect to hear that Mrs. Entwistle has -been caught up into Heaven. As a matter of fact she lives there all -the time, because, though you wouldn't think it to look at her, she is -a sort of a fairy." - -"I should like to be back before dark," said Francis. - -"Three minutes," answered Serge, "and I'll go with you." He turned to -Annie. "I've found work for you as soon as you're ready. A friend of -mine has a farm six miles away. He lives with his sister and he wants -an assistant housekeeper." - -Annie had never taken her eyes from him since he had come into the -room. Her eyes now filled with tears, and her hands made a touching -little gesture, almost imperceptible, of gratitude towards him. Serge -went on: - -"He's not a rich man, but he'll pay you enough, so that you can feel -independent and always be putting by a little." - -Annie found her voice but she remained inarticulate. Francis was -curiously relieved when Serge rose to go. He held out his hand to her. -She took it in both hers and said: - -"I know. I must have made you very unhappy. You have been very good to -me." - -"Not at all. Not at all," said Francis huskily. She turned to Serge: - -"You'll come again? It won't be long now." - -"Next Saturday." - -"It might be before then." - -"I'll come on Monday." - -"Thank you." - -Francis found his way out into the garden. Through the window he saw -Serge take the girl into his arms and kiss her. More than ever he felt -that he had been impertinent. - -The sun was setting and the mist had almost cleared as Serge joined -him. In the west the sky was crimson, straked with indigo clouds. -Serge took his father's arm and said: - -"We owe a good deal to that young woman, you and I." - -"Yes," replied Francis doubtfully. "It seemed to me that she is more -than a little in love with you." - -"I hope so." - -"Isn't that a little dangerous?" Francis felt very bold in making this -excursion into psychology, but the pressure of Serge's hand on his arm -reassured him. - -"My dear father," came the reply, "for thirty years you have been paid -for teaching people that the only safety of our little existence here -on earth lies in love. I can imagine nothing more awful and -disappointing than for a woman to go through the process of childbirth -without being in love. It is dreadful enough to live from moment to -moment without being in love, but to pass through a great natural -crisis without it would be devastating. If she weren't in love with me -I couldn't have touched her heart. I could only have appealed to her -intelligence, which would have been quite useless. It seemed to me -vitally important that she should be made happy, so that through -happiness she could understand and feel she was doing no injury to any -one, but was performing the ultimate service which a woman is -privileged to perform for only a few human beings, namely, the gift of -life. She has understood and felt that." - -"But she is in love with you!" - -"Why this terror of love? Love, like everything else, becomes a bad -thing if it is used selfishly. I ask nothing of her. She knows that. -She will love her child the more because of her love for me, and by -her greater love she will win the love of the child. . . ." - -"But . . ." said Francis. - -"What now?" - -Francis made full and frank confession of how he had come with a -desire to make the young woman understand and feel her sinfulness. -Serge pressed his arm affectionately. - -"My dear father," he said, "a flower may be impregnated by a very -disreputable bee, but it remains a beautiful flower for all that." - -"A flower," said Francis, "has no soul." - -"In the presence of love," replied Serge, "argument is quite futile. -The tragedy of the world, it seems to me, is this, that with such a -power of love and friendship and affection as is in us, there should -be so little of them." - -"I at least have won a little of them to-day," said Francis, and -timidly with his arm he pressed Serge's hand. - -"That's all right," said Serge. - -The night came down as they walked and hung out her most brilliant -canopy of stars, and, as in a peaceful lake, their light was mirrored -in the soul of Francis Folyat. - - - -XXII - -LOVE - -_Let us roll all our strength and all - Our sweetness up into one ball - And tear our pleasures with rough strife - Through the iron gates of life._ - ANDREW MARVELL - -WITH consummate skill Gertrude invented contrivances to conceal the -change that had come about in her affairs and feelings, but, as she -never deceived herself, she deceived no one else either. However, -everybody pretended to be deceived, and painlessly her engagement with -Bennett Lawrie was allowed to fade out of existence. He came less and -less to the house until the transformation in his status was complete, -and then he came more and more. - -Gertrude grew restless, her unease infected her mother, who had begun -to tire of Fern Square and to think it and its neighbourhood squalid. -The Clibran-Bells had left Fern Square and gone to a more expensive -and more modern house in the select neighbourhood of Burdley Park. -Little hints were thrown out, but nothing definite was said to -Francis, until he expressed a desire to enlarge his greenhouse in the -back garden and return to his old pastime of gardening. He had tired -of reading. He could not bring himself to tackle new books, and the -old had lost the potency of their appeal. His parish work was -organised into a comfortable routine, so that he had plenty of -leisure, and he disliked being left alone with tobacco and his -thoughts. Gradually he had fallen into a nearer companionship with his -wife, reading and discussing her foolish books with her and every -evening playing three games of bezique and allowing her to win. He -wanted some new form of activity, and one day, the post bringing a -seedsman's catalogue, he found what he wanted. He would grow ferns and -bulbs and fuchsias and geraniums and cactuses and have a very pleasant -refuge from any malign stroke that fate might be keeping in store for -him. - -Near the Clibran-Bells Gertrude found a house with a large -conservatory, and, all leaping to the prospect of a change, the -decision was come to, the remainder of the Fern Square lease disposed -of, and the household was moved. The new house was one room smaller -than the old. Serge took a studio at the top of a huge caravanserai of -offices near the Town Hall Square and arranged to live there. He had -painted a portrait of Mrs. Clibran-Bell which had brought him a -commission or two, and he regarded himself as sufficiently opulent to -pay the not very exorbitant rent. - -The removal took place in March, and a very pleasant house-warming was -held. Gertrude sent out the invitations and expressly did not invite -Bennett Lawrie. He turned up all the same, more silent, melancholy and -romantical than ever. He sat in a corner and spoke to nobody, and -looked so entirely dejected that at last Minna took pity on him, -smiled her sweetest, and said: - -"Why do you always play the skeleton at the feast? Are you really -thinking of death or only of what there is for supper?" - -"I didn't know I looked like that," answered Bennett with an effort. -"I was feeling rather happy listening to you all." - -"Looking on," said Minna, "is a dreadfully bad habit. Whenever I do -it, I always find myself wondering who is going to be married to whom, -or, at any rate, who is in love with whom, and how it is all going to -turn out. That is too horribly depressing. It is much better to be an -airy trifler. Why don't you try a little airy trifling?" - -"You can't do it alone." - -"That is _quite_ good. . . . Now then--one--two--three--hop." - -"I really couldn't trifle with you, Minna." - -This was true. The memory of the day by the river was much too vivid. -Bennett was nothing if not rigidly monogamous. Minna did not know -that. This new game, which had never occurred to her before, amused -her. She went on: - -"But you're doing it quite nicely." - -Bennett dropped back into the darkest gloom. He began to feel angry -with her and said savagely: - -"Am I?" - -"Indeed you are. And as you ain't going to be a little clergyman, it -doesn't matter." - -"It does. It always matters." - -"It only matters if--shall I say it?" - -"You generally say what you feel inclined to say." - -"It only matters if our little gentleman is in love." - -Bennett scowled. Minna went on with her banter until Annette came into -the room with a tray bearing lemonade and claret. Bennett sprang up -and hurried to meet her. Minna laughed and nodded to Basil Haslam to -come and take Bennett's seat. When he had done so, she said: - -"Have you ever noticed my little sister, Annette?" - -"Not particularly. Why?" - -"She is over there, by that young Lawrie." - -"Young idiot." - -"What do you think of her?" - -"She is looking quite pretty. Has she done her hair differently?" - -"No, nothing is different." - -"Excitement, perhaps." - -"Per--haps." - -Basil turned to Minna. He was not interested in Annette. - -"Minna, you look . . ." - -"Ta, ta, ta . . . Are we to have it all over again?" - -"Yes. Every time I see you. It's not long before I go away now. Will -you come with me? I can do better with you than without." - -"You don't know. You have never lived with me. I should hate being -really poor in a house of my own." - -"I'd make you rich with love." - -"And feed me with it and clothe me, and feed and clothe an enormous -family?" - -"We shouldn't have an enormous family at once. I'll make you rich -before there are . . ." - -Minna tapped his hand with amused affection, got up and left him. She -went and stood near Bennett and Annette and she heard him say: - -"Thank you for wearing them." - -She saw then that Annette was wearing two little red roses in her -bosom. - -"It was kind of you to send them," said Annette. - -"I hardly dared," said Bennett. "I didn't know if I might. I never see -you now." - -Annette looked up at him between fear and delight. His mournful eyes -met hers, and with a small envy Minna saw that they were entirely -oblivious of everybody in the room. Annette's lips pouted. A little -sigh escaped her. She turned and hurried away. - -Basil Haslam came up, took Minna rather roughly by the arm and dragged -her away to sit on the stairs. In her heart she was pleased by his -masterfulness, but superficially she was irritated, and they sat -quarrelling. - -The party engaged two rooms, one for cards and one for music. The room -in which Bennett stood began to fill as Mary produced her violin. -Annette returned from the kitchen with biscuits, sandwiches, cakes and -a trifle, and when she had disposed them on the table she turned to -Bennett and said: - -"Come." - -He followed her. - -She led the way into the little back garden, where, in a plot of grimy -grass, grew a sycamore-tree. At the end of the garden was a decayed -old summer-house of rustic wood. Bennett's heart thumped as they -approached it. They entered and stood for a moment in the darkness, -glad of it. Tears came to his eyes. He could not see her. His hands -groped in the darkness and soon found hers, warm, trembling. Very -gently he drew her to him and kissed her forehead and her hair many -times. Closer and closer she pressed to him, her hand went up to his -shoulder. He felt enormous strength come to him; the faintest little -cry came from her and their lips met. - -For each it was the first kiss of the beloved, a greater joy than -either had dreamed of, and therefore almost more pain than joy. -Holding her to him, Bennett murmured: - -"Annette, love, I love you." - -And she gave little crooning sounds and was the first to kiss again. - -Presently they crept back to the house and stole into the rooms again, -Bennett looking more miserable and feeling more aloof than ever. Minna -saw that Annette's roses were crushed, so that one of them had lost -its petals. Annette's lips were red and her eyes shone with a new -light. Bennett sought Minna and stood in silence by her side. Minna -turned to him and said tartly: - -"Annette is looking quite pretty to-night, isn't she?" - -"Is she?" Bennett's voice quavered. - -"I should advise you, as a friend, to make yourself very amiable to -Ma." - -"I have always," said Bennett, "had a great respect for Mrs. Folyat." - -"Bah!" answered Minna. "You take yourself much too seriously. You'll -never learn the wisdom of running away." - -"I ran away from you." - -"Of course you did; because I never take you seriously." - -Bennett said with asperity: - -"You never take anything seriously. Some day you'll have to." - -"Pooh!" Minna tossed her head and laughed. "I shall always know when -to run away." - -Feeling that the remark was idiotic and inappropriate Bennett closed -with: - -"The world is very beautiful." - -"Great heavens! We shall have you writing poetry next!" - -Bennett went very red. He had already written much poetry, as Minna -well knew, for she had purloined and read many of his effusions to -Gertrude. She wondered if it would be going too far to quote, decided -that it would, and mentally adapted certain verses to meet the new -circumstances. - -Bennett was called away to take a hand at whist--he was a fair -player--and to pass out of the room he had to go by Annette. He -avoided looking at her, but she followed him with her eyes, and, -turning, met Minna's gaze, curious and mischievous. Minna saw her -expression harden into pride and defiance, and it was Minna who looked -away. - -The party was very late in breaking up, and as Bennett was putting on -his overcoat Annette came and helped him. He turned to her and they -smiled at each other. She said: - -"Serge is going to make a picture of me. I begin to-morrow, at his -studio." - -"I'll write to you--then, if I may." - -Annette was called away by her mother, very peevish and anxious to go -to bed. She caught Bennett's hand, pressed it to her bosom and ran -away. - -"Good night," he murmured, and when he was out in the street, walking -home, he whispered to himself: - -"Good night, my love." - -* * * - -With the two crushed roses in her hand Annette slept like a child, -hardly stirring all night, smiling. She had prayed to God, as usual, -for her father and mother, and had particularly begged Him to bless -her love. - -Bennett on the other hand had suffered from a violent reaction. He -hardly slept, or, when he did so, it was to dream feverishly, seeing -himself in ignominious positions with no clothes on, in church, for -instance, or at his office. His thoughts flopped like frogs in a pond; -his emotions whirled, rushed in a flood up to the memory of that -moment of ecstasy, but were driven back by other memories, the Jew, -Kraus, Annette by the river, Minna and Haslam. He wanted so terribly -to understand, but he could not. He longed for nothing but to be with -Annette, to give her all her desire, to rescue her, fly with her. -. . . He fell asleep. In a chariot with swift horses he drove along a -wild, dismal road. Clothed all in brightness he found Annette under a -gallow's tree. Three bodies hung on it and swung in the wind, but she -was singing a beautiful song. She mounted into the chariot, and away -they sped, so fast, so fast, that presently they soared, and then down -they came with the air rushing in their ears. Soon the road caught -them again. There were hedges on either side of it now. They grew and -grew, taller, taller, taller. It was very dark. Soon he saw that they -were in a church. The chariot vanished. Annette vanished. He was alone -in a dark empty church, and with a bitter cry he exclaimed . . . He -awoke, shivering. He had thrown the bed-clothes off and torn his -night-dress from his body. He was so unhappy that he began to cry. -Utterly exhausted he fell asleep. - -He was late in the morning, dull and dead. The monotonous day's work -in the office soothed him. It was not until he left that he thought -again of Annette and remembered that he had not written to her as he -promised. He went round to Serge's studio and found him smoking and -surveying the rough beginnings of a charcoal drawing of Annette. - -"Hullo! sir," said Serge. "Anything wrong? You look as though you'd -seen a whole car-load of ghosts." - -"I didn't sleep well," answered Bennett. "Sometimes I don't." - -"That's nonsense at your age. How old are you?" - -"Nearly twenty." - -They talked for a little, but Bennett hardly heard what Serge was -saying. He went away soon and made no response to Serge's invitation -to come again. When he reached home he locked himself into the -dining-room--his father was out--and wrote to Annette. He made no sort -of opening, but plunged directly: - -"I do not know what to write. I love you. I hate myself. I cannot even -tell you how much or why. Something in me is entirely changed, -something of me is gone altogether Nothing exists but you. Everything -else is hard and cruel and dark. I dreamed of you last night. I -dreamed I had lost you. Have I? I went to look for you to-day. Oh! -Annette, I can't write any more." - -He did not sign it. He hurried it into an envelope when there came a -knocking at the door. The letter was shuffled into his pocket and he -went to the door and called: - -"Who is it?" - -In a very soft voice came: - -"Tibby." - -He opened to her. She had his night-shirt in her hand. She closed the -door and said: - -"You've torn your shift." - -"Yes. I tore it in my sleep." - -"Poor laddie," she said. "If I could do aught to help ye I would. -Ye're a poor solitary body. . . . It's this house and the misery -that's not of your making." - -Bennett looked at her and the kindness in her eyes made him burst into -tears. She patted his shoulders, went away into the kitchen and came -back with a glass of milk and some biscuits. She saw that he ate and -drank, and Bennett said: - -"Thank you. I feel better . . . Tibby, why don't people understand -what they are?" - -"God knows," said she. "It's all a great mystery. There's a deal of -unkindness, and a little kindness in the world. It's not given to us -to understand." - -"Tibby--" he paused. "Tibby, would you love me whatever I did?" - -"Surely. You're one of my bairns." - -Bennett kissed her. Then he went and posted his letter. - -* * * - -Annette came to meet him next day as he left his office. They had a -long walk and were altogether happy, laughing and discovering little -jokes that they could share--odd names on the shop-fronts, queer folk -in the streets, strange advertisements on the placards. He left her -near her home. He had so loved being alone with her that he had no -wish to see her with her family. Also he was afraid of Minna. She -spoiled everything. - -Only one evening a week could Annette give to him, but they had -Saturday afternoon and Sundays. She knew very little of the town, and, -though he had little pride in it, it was a delight to him to show her -such beauties as it had--the Zoological Gardens, the Art Gallery, the -Reference Library, the School, the College, Humphrey Bodham's -Hospital, the parks, the elegant southern suburbs. They shared it all, -and sharing made everything beautiful. Always he found her more -wonderful. Her simple trust in him strengthened him, dissipated the -mists and dark shadows of his mind, made him, what he had never been, -a boy. He could laugh with her. - -All the rest of his life seemed small and unimportant. Often at home -he sang aloud and talked to himself until his mother rebuked him. Then -he would atone by performing all sorts of little services for her. In -the office he felt that the silly day's work could be done in ten -minutes--nine o'clock, work till a quarter past, send the whole world -whizzing round, and then away to Annette. . . . But Annette's days -were long and laborious, and the presiding powers at the office -demanded his attendance from nine till five. He found his work easier -and quite interesting. He began dimly to perceive a purpose in its -processes. Talk with one or two of the elder men enlightened him. A -great deal of what they said seemed absurd to him. The world did not -exist for business. It existed for Annette. He had a trembling desire -to tell them so . . . One man told him that though immense fortunes -had been made in the cotton trade, they were a mere trifle compared -with the misery that had been created in the making of them. "But -that," said the man gloomily, "is the way of the world. It's happened -so often that nobody worries when it happens again. All business is -dirty business. A man must live, though I can never understand why." -. . . Such pessimism seemed utterly absurd to Bennett. He did not want -to understand why. He had only a general desire to be pleasant to -everybody, and became so willing and busy and obliging that his -superiors began to reverse their opinion of him. They had thought him -conceited, reserved, and, at bottom, stupid. One of the senior clerks -went out of his way to speak a few encouraging words to him. Such a -thing had never happened before, and Bennett rushed away to Annette to -tell her that the ball was at his feet, and he would quickly make his -fortune, and then he would call for her one day, and they would be -married by the bishop and for ever and ever they would live in a -delicious dream. They were always making plans, and living in them, in -a future that was so near the present as to be almost -indistinguishable from it. There was no past. They ignored obstacles -and impediments, lived in and for each other, and it seemed that it -had always been so. - -They hardly ever kissed each other in those young days. When they did -so they set stirring in each other forces that instinctively they felt -to be dangerous. What they had was so very precious, just the few -hours every week of unclouded happiness. Always--wet or fine--they -were out of doors, wandering blindly, oblivious of all else save each -other. They would take meals in their pockets the more to be -independent. - -As the result of one long walk in the rain Annette fell ill and was in -bed for a fortnight. She filled all Bennett's thoughts. He dared not -write to her, and only once was he bold enough to go and make -enquiries of Minna. The outside world began to close in upon him and -to insist that he should bring his image of his beloved into some more -proportionate relation with it. Much of the glamour left her, but she -was not the less precious to him. Rather more; but in a new way, a -simpler way, more easy to grasp. His intelligence began to play about -her, to appreciate her directness--(how marvellous that was compared -with everything else that he had had!)--her honesty, her confiding -loyalty, her skill in bending to his mood, and discarding everything -that might interfere with their happiness. . . . Days of gold and -summer sun, young, green days, all warm and busy with new life. . . . -Then, one evening as he sat by the window of his attic, looking across -the miles of roofs in the direction where she lay, she began to appear -to him in yet another way. He harked back to the night of their first -kiss, and he felt again the warmth of her body in its triumphant -surrender. He was half terrified by the new flood of warmth that ran -through him, and he put his hands over his eyes as if to shut out what -he was seeing. He became wholly afraid and ran downstairs to seek -company. - -He turned to his religion and scourged himself with the most naïvely -terrible thoughts of hell and damnation. This only had the effect of a -bellows on hot iron: his imagination became white hot, and not -Annette, but Woman obsessed him. Against that he could only set -Annette and her love: the only pure threads of his life. He was sick -and lean for love of her when he saw her again. - -She was white and large-eyed. Her mother was present. He could only -press her hand. How their two hands trembled as they touched! - -Her first excursion was to Serge's studio, where the portrait had been -left unfinished. Bennett met her there, and, after the sitting, they -had a long silent walk, arm in arm. - -"I thought of you all the time," said she. - -"And I of you . . ." He was troubled. "Oh! Annette!" - -He took her hand and, in the street as they were, kissed it over and -over again. - -* * * - -She went away to the sea and Serge with her. She liked being with -Serge, but even to him she could not declare herself. Under the warm -sun with the strong air blowing over salt from the sea she quickly -became well again, but all her longing was to get back. She was -uneasy. When she had last seen Bennett she had felt that some of the -glamour and delight had gone from him. He had changed. She must change -with him. He had gone on. Gone deeper. She must go with him. She had -never been trained to think. She never reasoned any difficulty out. -All her perception of her circumstances came to her in flashes. . . . -It was not long before she had caught Bennett up. She was not afraid, -but only glad to be with him once more. She was proud of the new -horizon that had opened to her. When health came back to her she was a -woman. - -One evening as she sat with Serge on the sands gazing at the moon -peeping above the sea and silvering the waves she said: - -"Serge, tell me, have you ever been in love?" - -"Often." - -"Happily?" - -"Happily and unhappily. It doesn't matter much. The great thing is to -love." - -"What is love?" - -"A great thing, but not the be-all and end-all of existence as so many -people try to believe. The greatest things lie beyond it." - -"Then you must go through it to get at them." - -"Exactly. Most people stick in the middle, or remain shivering on the -wrong side." - -"Like Frederic?" - -"Like Frederic." - -"I used to hate Frederic, but now I'm only sorry for him." - -"What's come to you?" - -She shivered. - -"It's very cold. Can I go home to-morrow?" - -"If you like. Do you want to?" - -"I must." - -* * * - -She returned to the house in Burdley Park next morning, but it was -some days before she informed Bennett of her arrival. He came hot-foot -as soon as he had her letter, and there was an air of dogged -determination about him and the embarrassment of one who has a vital -topic to approach. He had made a compromise between his mental torment -and his religious scruples and come to the idea of marriage, and the -idea had taken complete possession of him so that he saw nothing else. -The vision of the future to which it led was sufficiently entrancing -to make him unwilling to look elsewhere. He did try to contemplate the -future without that step, but it stretched intolerably blank. He -needed action. The upheaval that had taken place in him had set him -growing mentally and spiritually; in his office, in his house, he was -hurt at every turn, bumping into corners where none had been before. -He saw in marriage perfect freedom. It was an illusion, but he was -wholly deceived by it. He saw it as a summit of achievement from which -he could defy all that he had suffered all his life. He said to -Annette: - -"Annette, I love you. I want you to marry me. We shall be very poor, -but we shall have each other, and nothing else matters." - -This he said to convince himself. Annette did not need convincing. She -believed. - -"No," she said, "nothing else matters." - -He had hardly expected such instant compliance. For a moment it shook -the firmness of his conviction and blurred his vision of the free -future. He told himself that their present existence was intolerable -and must not be suffered to continue. - -Excitedly they made their plans. They believed that it was their -affair and theirs only. They saw the outside world as harsh and -menacing and devoid of understanding, were seared by it, and used -their fears to fortify their resolve. - -"Another month," said Bennett, "and we shall be man and wife." - -"I love you," said Annette. It was the first time the words had passed -her lips. - -* * * - -When Bennett had paid the expenses of the ceremony in an -out-of-the-way church and the price of the ring and their -wedding-dinner in a restaurant near his office he had exactly -thirty-shillings left until the end of the month. Annette returned to -her home until he should have found a lodging for her, and he engaged -himself to break the news to his mother at the first fitting moment; -fixed, in his own mind, at that when he should next receive his -monthly salary of seven pounds. - -He anticipated a storm, but, being still borne up by the excitement -and the adventure of what they had done, they felt secure against all -wrath. Hardly could they understand that there should be wrath. How -could their love meet with anything but love? - - - -XXIII - -BENNETT TELLS HIS MOTHER - -_Then would I speak, and not fear._ - JOB - -AFTER a week's search Bennett found lodgings as far removed as -possible from his family in a little pink-brick street that was one of -a network woven by a speculative builder over a tract of marshy ground -that for years had been unclaimed and used by the neighbourhood for a -rubbish heap. In a tiny little house he hired two rooms on the first -floor for twelve shillings a week. His landlady was a large German -woman who, by threateningly demanding references, inveigled him into -paying two weeks' rent in advance. He had to borrow ten shillings to -do that. He was terrified of the German but proud of the two rooms, -the first place that he had ever been able to call his own. The -wall-paper and paint were hideous, but he told himself that that could -soon be altered--should be altered before Annette saw the rooms. By -neglecting all other engagements he found time in the evenings to hang -what he thought a pretty paper and to paint the woodwork apple-green, -paint and paper being bought with more borrowed money. This manual -activity soothed him greatly, and he felt very proud of himself, -whistled and sang all the time as he toiled. He was so busy that for a -fortnight he hardly saw Annette, and when he did snatch a moment with -her he was exceedingly mysterious, and would not tell her what he was -up to, except that it was for her, a beautiful surprise. - -"Where is it?" asked she. - -"You wouldn't know if I told you. I'll take you there." - -"Next week? Is it to be next week?" - -"As soon as it is ready. . . . You're not sorry?" - -"Of course not." - -* * * - -As the end of the month drew near Bennett realised that it was not -going to be so easy as he had thought to break the surprising and -splendid news to his mother. He knew so little about her, and had -always had great difficulty in talking to her even about the most -impersonal matters. There had been differences between them before, -many trifling, and one serious, over his secession to the High Church -fold. All these differences now rose up and stood like a thick-set -hedge between him and her. . . . As long as he remembered her she had -been always sitting in the middle of the dark drawing-room waiting and -watching for the landmarks of the day--dinner at one, his brothers' -return from the bank, his own return from his office, tea, supper, the -hour for sleep--as time bore her evenly past them. For years now his -only long conversations with her had been at the end of the month when -he gave her his earnings and received his dole for spending. It made -him ashamed and unhappy to know that he disliked her, but he could not -explain it away, and he had never made any attempt to understand why -she was as she was--cold and hard and unresponding. If he took sides -at all in the antagonism of drawing-room and dining-room his leaning -was towards his father, but that was because the only intimacy in the -house lay between Tibby and old Lawrie. There was more warmth in the -dining-room than in the drawing-room, though, outwardly, it was his -father who was disgraced and deposed, his father whom Bennett had been -taught to contemn. . . . The only link that bound him to his mother -was money. He would use the monthly conversation about money as an -opening for his declaration of independence. He had not looked upon it -as that: had not contemplated a rupture and open breach between -himself and his mother, though he had heard muttered warnings in the -depths of his soul. - -When he returned home with seven pounds in his pocket, he hesitated -for a long time outside the drawing-room door with every nerve in his -body throbbing. His suffering was too great and he decided that he -would tell his father first. After all, his father was the head of the -family. . . . He walked gropingly down the dark passage to the -dining-room only to find his father out and Tibby working for dear -life at a column of cotton-prices. He knew what that meant. There -would be no telling his father. His father was "plang" (the family -euphemism), and, as she had often done before, Tibby was finishing his -work. - -She looked up at him and scowled. The work was never easy for her, she -had to supply the gaps of her ignorance with guesses and was always in -dread of guessing awry. Bennett sat down in the horsehair chair by the -fireplace, under the blue-eyed portrait of his grandfather, the Scots -minister, and rattled the money in his pocket. Tibby went on working. -Much of Bennett's terror vanished and he broke into the scratching of -her pen: - -"Tibby." - -"Eh?" - -"You said once you'd love me whatever I did." - -"Aye. What have you been doing?" - -"I'm married." - -"Losh!" - -Tibby dropped her pen and turned sorrowful eyes of wonder upon him. -Bennett jingled the money in his pocket. - -"I'm married," he said. "I'm very happy." - -"Och! The foolishness of men! Married! Laddie, ye'll never have a son -as young as yourself." - -"I'm married," said Bennett, "and I'm going to be very happy, and I -don't care what . . ." - -"Have you told your mother?" - -"No." - -"Better tell her at once. You'll break your neck over it. I'll finish -this and then I'll think it out. . . . Married! Losh!" - -She turned to her work again, and the pen scratched and spluttered. -Bennett reached the door when she called to him: - -"Laddie." - -He turned. - -"If ye love the lassie, ye've no call to be afeard. There's always a -way. There's no way where no love is." - -"I love her," said Bennett unconsciously dramatic and absurd. "I love -her as my life." - -"God bless ye." - -* * * - -Fortified by her benison and also by having once told his immense -secret Bennett passed swiftly to the drawing-room. He found his mother -sitting in her chair in the middle of the room with a cat in her lap. -He stooped and kissed her. - -"I've got some news for you!" - -"Sit down. You don't come and talk to me as often as you might." - -There was an unusual geniality in her voice that made it easy for him -to go on. - -"I've had a rise." - -"That's good. They must be pleased with you. How much?" - -"Five shillings a week." - -"That's very good. You shall have a shilling a week more for your -pocket-money. I'm glad you're doing so well. You can keep five -shillings for yourself this month." - -"That isn't all my news." - -"What else?" - -"I want to keep it all." - -"Nonsense. You can't do that." - -"I must. You see. I haven't told you everything. You see . . . I shall -want my money now. I'm--what I wanted to tell you is that--that . . ." -He gave a little nervous giggle that exasperated his mother and set -her tapping with her foot on the floor. "I'm--you see--I'm married." - -Her mouth dropped. Her hands waved weakly in the air. She got up and -went and stood for a long time--it seemed a very long time--by the -window. Without turning she said: - -"Who is the woman?" - -"Her name is Annette. Annette Folyat." - -"I might have known it. . . Will you ask your father to come here?" - -"Father's out." Bennett felt that his cause was lost. Only in the most -desperate cases was his father's presence over requested in the -drawing-room. - -"Tibby then." She went to the door and with extraordinary power of the -lungs shouted for the old servant. - -Tibby came shuffling. She was dressed to go out, in bonnet and shawl, -and had an envelope in her hand. - -"I'm in haste," she said. - -"Tibby, what's to be done? Bennett has married one of the daughters of -that High Church popery priest. What am I to do?" - -"What can you do?" - -"It can't go on. It's miserable folly. It's ruin. It's beggary. . . . -Where were you married? When?" She pounced on Bennett. - -"A fortnight ago. At St. Barnabas; banns and everything. We signed the -register. I forbid you to interfere." - -"Silence." - -"I will not be silent. I have taken my own life into my own hands. I -am going to have my own money and my own house. I shall leave your -house to-night, and I shall not enter it again until you ask me and my -wife together." - -"That's right, laddie," said Tibby quietly. - -Mrs. Lawrie opened her mouth to rend Tibby, who added: - -"I canna thole a man that winnot stand by his own doings." - -Mrs. Lawrie turned to Bennett and said: - -"May you never have a child to hurt you as you have hurt me this day." - -The wild frenzy that had possessed Bennett oozed away, and weakly he -asked: - -"Am I to go?" - -"Go. . . . As you've made your bed, so you must lie on it." - -A little unsteadily Bennett walked upstairs to his attic and began to -pack his belongings. He laid them all out on the bed, books, clothes, -small pieces of furniture, and they seemed to him very little. In -possession of his secret he had felt very large and important; now he -felt very small indeed. - -Downstairs in the drawing-room his mother sat writing a letter to -Francis, denouncing him and all his works and his daughters, who were -a snare to youth and guilelessness. Tibby had tried to reason with -her, but she was beyond reason. She had been hurt and wished to hurt. -Carefully, laboriously, she had toiled to insure her children against -all risks and perils of the world. Brick by brick she had built a -prison for each of them which should last as long as life, and, at the -first touch, the walls that hemmed in and secured her youngest born -had come toppling down, and all around herself she saw the abomination -of desolation. She hated life, and her enemy had proved too strong for -her. - - - -XXIV - -ANNETTE TELLS HER FATHER - -_You have stores of patience, only now and then fits of desperation_ - DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS - -FRANCIS received Mrs. Lawrie's incoherent offensive letter, gulped -down its unpalatable statement of fact, burned it, and rushed to his -greenhouse to think it over and to master the anger that was rising in -him. . . . He blamed himself for not having seen what was in the air -and tried to remember incidents and conversations which should have -given him the hint. He recollected several, quite enough to set him -scourging himself for his blind neglect, until he began to ask himself -what he could have done supposing he had seen and realised. Quite -clearly he could not have forbidden Bennett the house. Interference -was always dangerous where the emotions were concerned. - -Most painful of all was the thought that Annette should not have had -trust enough in him to seek his advice and comfort if she were in -trouble. She must have suffered, he told himself, to make such a -plunge into poverty and the responsibility of marriage. It must have -been a tremendous flood of feeling that had swept her into it. . . . -It was so pitiful: a mere child: children both of them. - -In a second he found himself thinking the worst of it--a scrambled -marriage of necessity. He put that from him. Of course not. Annette -had been well and happy--except for her illness--extraordinarily -happy, and so gentle and sympathetic and thoughtful, so blithe and -busy. No wickedness there, no hypocritical covering up of dark gnawing -secrets. Only the most absurd, pitiful romantic folly, reckless -defiance of all the laws of prudence. - -If his thoughts of Annette were gentle and indulgent, he found it hard -to extend his kindliness to Bennett. Young men would be young men, but -they should leave young women alone. (Francis, still regarded young -women as generically and fundamentally different from young men. To -him young women who took any active part in the affairs of love were -abnormal and unmaidenly. What exactly young men were to do with their -ardour or where to present it, he did not know, and he was unconscious -of any discrepancy in his thoughts.) The personal factor entered into -his contemplation of this side of the pother. He told himself that -Bennett had treated him very badly, had accepted his hospitality for -years, received his indulgence in his affairs with Gertrude, his--to -be sure, unsuccessful--assistance in the furtherance of his clerical -ambitions, and then, secretly, with cunning and deceitfulness, he had -played upon Annette's young and innocent affections. There was an easy -satisfaction in thus angrily vilifying Bennett, but it did not last -long, for it led to a conception of Annette which did not sort with -her nature as he knew it. She had always been curiously self-reliant -and, quite clearly, fully cognisant of the facts of her existence and -the purposes of her womanhood. Still he was reluctant to relinquish -Bennett from the talons of his wrath. He was going to take Annette -away, and could give no guarantee of his ability to provide for her -and make her secure against the devastating influences of the hard -struggle for daily bread. With his instinct for justice he asked -himself what else they had to offer Annette, and, further, what they -had given her from day to day ever since her return--drudgery, -unending toil, a monotonous, trivial, and unrewarded activity. That -brought him hotly near the heart of the mystery, but he turned his -back on it, only to find himself most vividly remembering his visit to -the house of the Lawries, and finding in that the explanation of -Bennett's share in the preposterous marriage. He had wondered then -what would become of Bennett. Now he was answered. . . . Presumably -Mrs. Lawrie had not been misinformed. Obviously not. Her vituperation -came from a fury of despair, a hopelessness in the face of a new turn -of fate, which he felt to be so degrading that he desired to avoid it. -Clearly there was nothing to be done. If it was salutary by a heavy -use of the tongue to lacerate Annette and bring her to a sense of the -seriousness of the thing she had done, he would--but he reflected that -his wife would do all that and more than was necessary in that kind. -For himself then there was nothing to be done and nothing to be said. -If they found it impossible--as was more than likely--to live on -Bennett's income, something must be done to help them. Both families -must contribute. . . For a moment he thought fantastically that the -solution might be to ignore their marriage altogether, and keep -Annette at home until Bennett could afford to keep her. He knew that -for folly. If passion had so far blinded their reason that they had -rushed into an insoluble compact, to thwart and repress it would be to -invite unimagined disaster. - -"It is beyond me," he said. "Did these things happen when I was young? -The world seems to be changing. I am too old to change with it." - -His last reflection was that, having swallowed Frederic's disaster, he -could not logically strain at Annette's. He was wounded. Time would -heal his wounds. Above all he must not be reduced to such an ignoble -frenzy of bewilderment as Mrs. Lawrie. Then he felt sorry for the -"garden-roller." - -"It must be," he said, "very distressing to come on a hard stone in -the middle of a soft lawn." - -That restored his humour. He took twelve little pots and began filling -them with earth and fibre for his bulbs. - -Annette came into the greenhouse. Francis suppressed a desire to run -away. He did not look at her, but pretended to be absorbed in his -work. Annette asked if she might help him. - -"I think," he said, "I think you had better close the door." - -Annette closed the door and stood with her back against it. Francis -stole a glance at her. She was excited but there was no fear in her, -only a sort of shy obstinacy. She said: - -"How you love your greenhouse! You have been so much happier since we -came here." - -"I have. And you?" - -"I'm not altogether happy, because I want to go away." - -"My dear!" - -"Yes. You can't be quite happy when you're going away from things and -people you've loved and grown used to, can you?" - -"I suppose not." - -"Father . . ." Francis trembled. His affections were touched. In his -thoughts he had not realised the poignancy of his loss. It was going -to be very painful; more painful almost than anything that had ever -happened to him. He could not bear her hesitation, and he hastened the -calamity. - -"I know," he said. - -"You know?" - -"Yes. I have had a letter from--his mother. She is very angry." - -"And you . . . Are you angry?" - -"Oh! my dear, dear child . . ." - -Then Annette was in his arms and they were crying together, and she -was saying: - -"Dear, dear father . . . I didn't mean . . . I didn't know it was -going to be like this. I didn't think, I didn't think of anything but -him. I haven't thought of anything but him for a long time. . . ." - -"But such a wedding . . . no cake, no presents, nobody to cry over you -. . ." - -"Only you, father." - -"I'm an old fool. I ought to be very angry with you. . . . But I'm -not. I ought to be predicting the most horrible and miserable future -for you. . . . But I can't. . . . It's much too serious. . . . I think -you ought to tell your mother. It will hurt her less if it comes from -you than if it comes from me. I'll tell the others. . . . There's -nothing to be said. I believe that you love each other. I will pray -for your happiness. . . ." - -"He's ready for me," said Annette. . . . "I wanted to go to him -to-night, but I'll wait until to-morrow if you like." - -Francis pondered that for a moment. - -"No," he said. "No, I think it would be best if you told your mother -now and went away at once. It will save many tears. We shall have the -night to get used to the idea. . . . It's a new idea; rather a -difficult one to digest--our little Annette a married woman." - -She told him then that Bennett was coming for her to the end of the -street. - -"And your belongings?" asked Francis. - -"I was going to carry them." - -"Could you? I never thought they were so little. . . . Don't brides -usually have trousseaux?" - -"I'm to have nothing that brides usually have. I don't want anything." - -Francis filled the twelfth little pot, and very deliberately squeezed -the mould down with his thumbs. - -"I think," he said, "I think that while you are talking to your mother -I will walk along and see my--my son-in-law." - -"Yes. . . . Yes. Bennett will be glad to see you." - -"Will he?" said Francis dubiously. - -They left the greenhouse. He watched Annette run upstairs, took his -hat and stick and walked up the street. At the corner he saw a lean -figure, standing under a lamp-post. It was Bennett. He was seized by a -sudden fierce desire to hurt him and he gripped his stick more tightly -and sawed with it up and down. He was walking rather faster than he -knew and caught up with Bennett before the sudden mood had passed. His -stick swung in the air, and Bennett was roused from his dreams of -bliss by a sudden thwack across his loins. He was more startled than -hurt, for he had not heard any approach. - -"Ooh!" he cried, then recognised his assailant. "Mr. Folyat!" - -Francis breathed heavily and raised his stick again. To feel Bennett's -flesh yielding under his blow had given him an intense and peculiar -satisfaction, a pleasure so unwonted that his senses craved more of -it. His mind however had shot ahead of his mood and he dropped his -stick and said: - -"I beg your pardon. . . . That was not what I intended. My intentions -are frequently belied by my performances. . . . Did I hurt you?" - -"You did." Bennett rubbed his thigh ruefully, then stooped and -restored his stick to Francis. They stared at each other by the light -of the lamp-post and at length Francis said: - -"Annette is telling her mother. She has just told me. I propose to -stay with you until she comes. We should--a--we should know each other -better." - -"I told my mother yesterday, I left her house last night." - -"It was foolish of you to quarrel." - -Francis laid his hand on Bennett's arm and turned with him down the -street. They passed up and down on the side opposite the house, -Francis explaining as best he could how and why he had come to strike -his son-in-law. He was very frank, and pointed out those elements of -Bennett's conduct of which, as a gentleman, he could not approve, but -made it clear that they should not stand in the way of a friendly -acceptance of the inevitable. - -* * * - -Upstairs in the drawing-room Annette had found her mother alone with -Serge. Mrs. Folyat was knitting a never-ending woollen vest, and Serge -was unwinding a skein for her round the back of a chair. Annette told -her news. Serge went on winding the skein. Mrs. Folyat dropped her -knitting, took off her spectacles, put them on again, pushed them up -to her forehead and looked Annette up and down. Then very slowly, as -though she was groping for her words, she said: - -"I am thinking only of your father. This will bring his white hairs in -sorrow to the grave." - -"I have told father," said Annette - -Mrs. Folyat was too far gone in sentimentality--forged sentiment--to -feel anything. She had chosen what she thought the most appropriate -and effective method of attack, only to find it parried. She clutched -blindly at the first seemingly fit words that came to her mind, those -which had already been used by Mrs. Lawrie: - -"As you have made your bed, so you must lie on it." - -Serge rose and said: - -"That is no reason why you should try to make it more uncomfortable, -mother." - -Mrs. Folyat hardly heard him. She had begun to think (the specially -ordained scourge of the sentimentalist) what people would say of her; -not what they would say of Annette: she was incapable of seeing the -affair from Annette's point of view. One of her darling fictions, that -of her perfect motherhood, was menaced. She was a she-lioness to -protect it: her fictions were to her what her children might have -been. With incisive and bitter sarcasm she assailed Annette for the -space of two minutes. She predicted that Bennett would take to drink, -that he would desert her, that there would be a scandal, and she (Mrs. -Folyat) would never be able to hold up her head again. When she could -find no more baneful prognostications to throw at her offending -daughter's head, she took refuge in tears and began to declare that -she wished that she were dead, since all the love she had lavished on -her children was to be returned with such ingratitude. They were all -ungrateful, all, all--except dear Frederic--and she wished she had -never had a daughter. . . . Annette bore it all meekly, though she was -very near breaking down. It had all seemed so simple to her: she -loved, she was obeying her love, and all this made it so complicated. -. . . Serge's blood boiled, but he said nothing. He saw that Annette -was in an impregnable position, not to be undermined. - -Very quietly Annette said: - -"I am going to-night, mother. I told father I would stay until -to-morrow, but he said I had better go to-night." - -Mrs. Folyat covered her face with her handkerchief. Tears she knew -were unanswerable, but she did not anticipate that Annette would make -no attempt to carry the discussion farther. When she removed her -handkerchief Annette was gone and Serge was sitting quietly unwinding -her skein of wool. - -"Serge! Serge!" she said. - -"Yes, mother." - -"Has she gone?" - -"Yes, mother." - -He turned and looked at her, and under his steady gaze she was -silenced. She brought her spectacles down on to her nose, took up her -knitting and went on with it. Every now and then she sniffed. - -Serge wound the new skein of wool into a ball and placed it in the -basket by her side. He waited for a moment to see if she had anything -to say. She only sniffed. Every line in her figure expressed a perfect -wallowing in self-pity. He left her to it. - -* * * - -In the street Francis, still clinging to Bennett's arm, ended his -homily thus: - -"Marriage, of course, is a blessed condition, and man was not meant to -live alone. You will get into difficulties; everybody does. You will -look for help; everybody does.--But don't let it become a habit." - -He had a great deal more to say, but just as, for the fourteenth time, -they came opposite the house, the door opened and Serge and Annette -came out, he carrying her luggage, a small trunk. In her hands she had -two hats of straw, very high in the crown and very small in the brim. -Bennett left his father-in-law and rushed over to her. - -"Excuse me," he said to Serge, and took Annette's trunk from him. -Annette laid her hand in his arm and they walked off up the street in -the direction of a cab-rank in the main Burdley Road. - -Francis joined Serge and they followed close behind. - -"And to think," said Francis, "that Annette should be the first to go, -and that she should go like this! . . . What do you, make of it, -Serge?" - -"It would be funny," replied Serge, "if it were not so pathetic." - -"Just . . . just what I have been feeling. Look at them! They look as -if they were going off to an evening's merry-making." - -"They have forgotten us already." - -That was true. The lovers walked fast, hailed a cab on the rank, and -had climbed in to it and were off by the time Serge and Francis came -up with them. Serge bawled to the driver, the cab stopped, and -Annette, conscience-stricken, jumped down and came quickly to her -father. Francis drew a ring from his finger, a gold ring set with an -emerald, and said: - -"I couldn't let you go without my present." - -"I'm not going far, father." - -"No, my dear, but it is for ever." - -Serge went to Bennett in the cab, shook hands with him, and said: - -"You're doing a bigger thing than you know." - -Bennett wrung Serge's hand, and could find no better expression of his -very real emotion than this: - -"You're my brother now, you know." - -Annette came up, kissed Serge, and was promised her finished portrait -for a wedding present. - -"That's two!" she said. - -"Good-bye, Annette!" - -"Good-bye. Good-bye." - -She mounted into the cab again, and its iron wheels went clattering -over the cobble-stones. - -"I wonder," said Francis, turning homeward, "I wonder if he heard a -word of all that I said to him." - -"Did you say much?" asked Serge. - -"I struck him." - -Serge laughed. - -"It was most extraordinary. An uncontrollable impulse. It needed some -explanation, for I meant only to assure him that, in spite of his -burglarious entry into it, I accepted him as a member of my family. Do -you approve, Serge?" - -"I believe in Annette. I would rather be Annette than Gertrude or Mary -or Minna." - -"So would I. I wonder why?" - -"You won't agree with me, but I detest all this repression of emotion -in the name of virtue. It is nothing but cowardice. You can't destroy -emotion by suppressing it. It only goes bad. . . . I'm only thankful -to see Annette out of your house and away fighting for her own hand." - -"Theoretically I cannot applaud Annette, but, frankly, I must confess -that I am excited and curiously uplifted by her open defiance of -. . ." - -"My dear father, you are a sentimentalist yearning over love's young -dream. Annette knew that--instinctively. She knew that you would -expect her to live on love's young dream indefinitely, until the bloom -was gone from her youth and the edge from her appetite. She knew that -she could not trust you. Still less my mother. She took the law into -her own hands, and I admire her for it." - -Francis walked on for some moments in silence. At the gate he said: - -"I have reason to respect your opinions, Serge, but I heartily dislike -them. . . . Will you come and help me in the greenhouse? I should be -obliged if you will stay with me to-night until your mother is in bed -and asleep. It will be so bad for her to talk." - -* * * - -Mary saw her mother to bed and then came to say good-night to her -father. She wore an expression of intense gloom as she pecked at his -cheek. She patted his shoulder as though to tell him to be a little -man and bear it. - -Minna came. - -"I shall be the next, pa." - -"Not another elopement, my dear." - -"No, pa. . . I want to send a piece of my wedding-cake to Annette. -Will you give me away, Serge?" - -"With all my heart." - -Minna kissed her father and pulled his beard as she used to do when -she was a little girl. - -At the door of the greenhouse she turned: - -"I shall have Gertrude and Mary for my bridesmaids. Won't they be -pleased? . . ." - -"Go to bed," said Francis. - -"We gave Ma some hot gin and water to make her sleep," said Minna, and -she winked at Serge. She went away light-heartedly, humming the Dead -March in Saul. - -Gertrude did not appear. - -* * * - -At half-past twelve Serge went up to his mother's room, peeped in, saw -her sleeping, gently closed the door, and tip-toed away. He told his -father. - -"Thank God, for that," said Francis. "I was afraid she . . ." - -He took up the lamp and began slowly to move when there came a -peremptory ring at the front-door bell. The lamp in his hand rattled, -and he went to open the door. He saw a policeman standing on the -door-step. He was so startled and alarmed that he could find nothing -to say. - -"Anything wrong, constable?" asked Serge. - -"The Reverend Mr. Folyat?" - -"My name," answered Francis. "Anything wrong?" - -"We've got a gentleman at the station; gave us your name for bail, Mr. -Folyat." - -"A gentleman?" - -"Yessir. Drunk and obscene language." - -"Have a drink, constable?" said Serge. - -"Well, sir . . ." - -They went into the study. The constable was refreshed, and told how an -old man in a rusty green coat and a battered silk hat had been brought -into the station and for many hours had refused to give his name or -any information about himself. He was not known to the police. The -arrest took place early in the afternoon. At eleven o'clock he had -asked for bail, referred the police to Mr. Folyat and given his name, -but no address. His name was James Lawrie. - -"Good gracious!" exclaimed Francis. "Mr. Lawrie! Dear me! Poor -gentleman. . . . Will you come with me, Serge?" - -They went out as quietly as they could. With his hand on the knob of -the front door Serge heard his mother calling from the landing: - -"Serge! Francis! Frank!" - -He closed the door and ran after his father and the constable, who -were already some way up the street. - -At the police-station they were kept for some time in the waiting-room -until, escorted by a brawny officer, old Lawrie appeared before them. -He was clearly only just roused from sleep. He looked extremely -disreputable, with his hat hanging over one eye and his bushy white -hair sticking out under the hat. His white beard was filthy with mud -and blood. He stood blinking at the light and peering at Francis. -After a moment or two he recognised him, removed his hat, and stood -with bowed head. - -"This is Mr. Folyat," said the inspector. - -"Aye." - -"Mr. Folyat will go bail for you. You must give your address, age, and -occupation." - -Old Lawrie mumbled so inarticulately that Francis was appealed to. He -gave the address, age, and occupation of Bennett's father. - -After a formality or two they were shown out politely, and old Lawrie -was bidden to attend in court the next morning. - -He said: - -"Aye." - -Out in the street he shook himself like a wet dog. Francis said -kindly: - -"I am sorry indeed to meet you again in such unfortunate -circumstances, Mr. Lawrie." - -"Blethers!" said the old man. "One prison is like unto another. Man. -I've made a philosophical discovery of the first magnitude. The dirty -soul of man was written on the walls of my cell. . . . When last we -met--as they say in the plays--you were kind enough to listen to some -verses of mine. What d'ye think of this?" - -He took a deep breath, and blew out his chest. - -"I composed it as I lay on the hard board in my cell. I wrote it on -the wall among the rest, for the benefit and better understanding of -my successors: - - _This place is but a room in Hell, - Damned for the punishment of thieves - Who steal their brothers' booty; for 'tis sure - The small thief starves on what the big thief leaves._ - -What d'ye think of it?" - -"Admirable!" said Serge. - -Old Lawrie turned to him: - -"And who may you be? You've a bonny voice." - -"My son," said Francis, glad to say something, for it had just -occurred to him that this old lunatic was the father of his new -son-in-law. He was infinitely relieved when Serge said in a whisper: - -"I'll take him home. It's on my way." - -They parted company as they came into the Burdley Road. Francis -watched Serge and the shambling figure of the old man disappear into -the darkness, and then, ruefully enough, walked home. It would be -difficult, he thought, to persuade his wife to make light of old -Lawrie's foibles. - -"I shall never be able," he said to himself, "to make her see that -Annette has married the son and not the father." - -Indeed, when he told his wife of that night's adventure--and she kept -him at it until half-past four in the morning--it became very clear to -him that not Annette's secrecy nor her highhandedness nor her want of -faith in her parents was one-half so bitter to her as the fact that -Bennett was, with natural inadvertence, his father's son. - - - -XXV - -LAWRIEAN PHILOSOPHY - -_I now mean to be serious--it is time._ - DON JUAN. - -MEANWHILE Serge and old Lawrie became so interested in each other that -they walked far into the night. It was Serge who opened the -conversation: - -"I gather that you will be charged with drunkenness and obscene -language." - -"Aye. When I'm fou I'm mighty full o' poetry. The exact words were -'bloody symbol.' The man probably thought I was referring to his -vices. I told him he was a symbol of Society's hypocritical endeavour -to suppress the consequences of its own villainy. My drunkenness is -one of those consequences. It is the direct outcome of the habit of -loneliness. . . . Did I talk to you about that before? . . . No. It -would be your father. Have you ever been to prison?" - -Serge regretted that he had never had that experience. - -"It was a dirty cell they put me in, but it was shining with the -truth, the blackguardly truth of all humanity. Man, I found there what -I've been seeking these thirty years. . . . I wonder now if ye'll -understand me. I would like to know what ye make of life, or if ye -make anything of it at all." - -"It seems to me simple enough," replied Serge. "A man is born. Two -things lie before him, love and death." - -"That's it. That's it. Now mark what I'm going to tell you. On the -walls of my cell were drawings and writings--horrible drawings of -women, lewd verses, and hysterical outbursts in the name of Jesus -Christ. They were conventional, I admit, but that only makes it all -the worse. It means that men are imprisoned in their own minds, -debarred from woman on the one hand and from God on the other. You may -tell me that my cell has been occupied only by lowest types, but if -the Prince of Wales were to be incarcerated in it he would in time add -to the collection of bawdy rhymes, and if he were followed by the -Archbishop of Canterbury there would be one more such inscription as: -'Christ died to save me and the magistrate.' Some men are reduced to -filthiness, some to hysteria, some to both. For the superficial and -trivial purposes of existence such as the day's work, marriage, family -duties, the so-called pleasures of society, they contrive to cover up -their deplorable condition. Within themselves they are reduced to the -most devastating loneliness. In their day-to-day prison of Society -they do not write their thoughts on the walls (except for an -occasional jubilant outburst over the successful issue of an amorous -adventure), and it has remained for me to find in an actual -acknowledged prison the frank revelation of the state of the human -mind. . . . It has always been so. . . . Britons never shall be slaves -indeed! They never have been, never will be, anything else." - -Serge quoted: - -"L'inconvénient du règne de l'opinion, c'est qu'elle se mêle à ce dont -elle n'a que faire; par exemple, la vie privée. De là la tristesse de -l'Amérique et de l'Angleterre." - -"Aye," said the old man. "And what would the man that wrote that say -if he could see our town and all the other towns, the rusty links in -the world-wide thing the men of our time are so pleased to call -industrialism? Men make everything in their own image. If you want to -know what men are look at their towns, look at their houses, look at -their books, their art. . . . At first, being human, ye'll be dazzled -and pleased by the conceit and egoism that have gone to the making of -them, but soon beneath the conceit and the egoism ye'll find nothing -but fear--fear of death, fear of love; appeals to Jesus Christ from -the one, abuse of women by way of escape from the other. Fools and -blind! There's no escape. There's no good life but in the honest -meeting of the one and the other. . . ." - -"And women?" asked Serge. - -"Their minds reflect only the minds of men. I think now that all the -trouble, all the distress, and all the muddle come from the arrogance -of men, who have always preferred the reflection of life in the -flattering mirror of their minds to life itself. They have dropped the -bone for the shadow, when they might have had both. They could have -admired the shadow and eaten the bone; but, in the folly of their -arrogance, they have thrown both away. . . . They must be almost as -great a trial to God as they are to themselves. God is very merciful, -since, though they will not love, yet He allows them to die. The -mistake is understandable. A man's eyes, all his senses, assure him -that he is the centre of the universe. Quite obviously his senses lie, -but it is often difficult to see the obvious. There cannot be more -than one centre of the universe, and, if a man will only reflect for a -moment, he will see that all his neighbours, his dog, the tree in his -garden--if he has a garden--every star in the sky, must be victims of -the same delusion. Unhappily, though man has lived on this world for -thousands of years, he has not yet made the small mental effort -necessary for the slight correction of his senses. It has taken him -thousands of years to discover that this earth on which he has his -dwelling is not the centre of the solar system. That was a shock to -his vanity, and his endeavour since then has been to prove his own -all-importance in the scheme of things. He has turned to and -pigeon-holed his knowledge and called it science. He has become -increasingly adventurous and busy, simply because of the restlessness -that has come over him on being confronted with his mistakes. He has -discovered the whole habitable globe and proceeded to defile it. In my -lifetime he has blundered into the discovery of steam-power, -electricity, and they talk of oil as a generator of more power. I have -seen many changes, but always it has come back to the same thing. The -principles of life are few and simple. Every discovery puts a girdle -round the earth, every invention that liberates man in body and mind -makes the command sound clearly and more loud: 'Thou shalt love and -thou shalt die. . . .' With every discovery however the egoism of -mankind waxes more and more fat and they stop their ears to the -command. They insist that they are the crowning achievement and -purpose of creation--the old delusion, you observe, of being the -centre of the universe. Those who are most strongly obsessed by this -delusion thrust those in whom the conviction is not so strong away -from their path or down under their feet. They thrust and fight their -way to the centres of human organisation, which they mistake for the -centre of the universe, the point at which their centre-hood can be -most openly declared for all men to see. They thrust and fight their -way to power, only to find themselves powerless, for, in spite of -themselves, in spite of the lies with which they are fed and feed -themselves, men do obey the laws of love and death. . . . But in such -a way, such a halting, mean, decrepit, stealthy way!" - -Here the old fellow paused, and Serge said: - -"You have come to my contention that good and bad, for men and women, -lie wholly in the use or the abuse of things." - -But old Lawrie was so intent on his own thoughts that he seemed not to -hear Serge. They came to the bridge under the Collegiate Church and -leaned against the parapet. Oily black the river ran under the dark -walls of warehouses and mills. The lights of the windows and the -street lamps shone and flickered in the greasy depths of the tainted -water. - -"Yon river," said old Lawrie, "is like the life of a man. I know not -where it rises, but it comes pure and sweet from the hill-side, -meandering and murmuring through meadows, growing wider and ever wider -in its irresistible and purposeful progress to the sea. In the towns -and cities of men it becomes poisoned and poisonous, but, tainted as -it is, it hastens onward to its goal. . . . I beg your pardon if I -have obscured my meaning with parable. What I see, and what much -bitter experience has taught me, is that there is evil enough lying in -wait for men without their adding to the sum of it by mental and moral -confusion. Say their place in the creation is the highest, say that in -them life finds its keenest expression, should not their glory be the -glory of service rather than the vain-glory of servitude? Why must -they always be demanding applause for the work they do so ill? Is -there any work that men have ever done--outside the arts--that could -not have been done better? . . . I say there is none. And I have found -the answer to all these questions only to-day, in my prison-cell. To a -man diseased with egoism--and how many men are not?--love and death -are hurtful things, for they are not flattering to his vanity. In the -reflection of life in which men strive to live (for in that reflection -their vanity can have free play, exactly as it can and always does -when a man scans his features in a glass) love and death are not seen. -All human codes of conduct and of morals, all dealings between man and -man, are cut to fit the reflection and not life itself. . . . What, -then, is human life?--what are the depths that sustain the yeasty -turbulence of man's knavery and folly and dirtiness and hysteria? -. . . A man is kin and comrade with all things living, from the great -sun to the motes dancing in the sun's rays. He is a part of that -radiance which rises from the centre of the universe and courses -through the veins of every stone and every tree and every living -thing. . . . Aye, such a power of life in a man, and such a comical -small thing as he makes of himself! . . . Such a comical, small thing -as I've made of myself! . . . Rapacity made this town what it is. -Think what it might have been, what all towns might have been, if love -had made them! . . . There'll come a time when Society will no longer -be a prison walled off with fear of love and fear of death. The poets -have not lived and sung for nothing. They'll cleanse the walls of the -filth and the cry of bitter anguish; and when man has done with -discovering the world and playing at conquerors and king o' the -castle, he will come to the most glorious day of all when he shall -know himself, what he is: - - _Great Nature spoke, with air benign: - 'Go on, ye human race! - This lower world I you resign, - Be fruitful and increase. - The liquid fire of strong desire, - I've poured in every bosom; - Here, on this hand, does Mankind stand, - And there is Beauty's blossom.'_ - -That's Robert Burns for ye! . . . Good night." - -He walked away abruptly, and Serge only remembered then that he had -intended to inform the old man of the fate that had befallen his son. -More than ever he felt that Bennett and Annette were, in the main -principle of their action, right, though they might be wrong in the -details of their manner of doing it. The world would exact a heavy -penalty of them. The world would be wrong. - -* * * - -Old Lawrie awoke next morning to find his wife standing by his bedside -holding out a letter. It was from Mrs. Folyat and was extremely -offensive. Old Lawrie read it: - -"There's no doubt," he said, "that he's a son of mine." - -He handed the letter back to his wife, turned over on his side and -went to sleep again. - - - -XXVI - -MINNA'S CHOICE - -_It is always difficult to get rid of a woman at the end of a -tragedy._ - CHARLES LAMB. - -THERE was no competition for the mantle of Annette. In the Burdley -Park house the Folyats began to realise that they were increasingly -uncomfortable. Annette's powers of organisation had not been great, -but she had acquired considerable skill in preventing the consequences -of her mistakes and laches being generally felt. . . . When she left -there was a sort of domestic collapse. No meals were ever punctual, -nor were they tolerably cooked. Mrs. Folyat's temper suffered, and she -lashed her three remaining daughters with shrill sarcasm. . . . Mary -had a sudden influx of new pupils and absented herself all day long. -Gertrude arranged for a round of visits, and Minna became extremely -zealous in church work, while Mrs. Folyat simmered in her indignation -against the world in general, Annette in particular, and especially -against love, that laughing enemy of public opinion. Not Annette's -duplicity, not her secrecy, not her defiance of parental authority so -rankled in her mother's mind as the black-and-white fact before all -the vulgar, prying world that Bennett's father was not respectable. -The unlucky Bennett had inserted an advertisement of the marriage--he -read it many times himself: _Lawrie--Folyat. On the_ 28_th Sept., -Edward Bennett, youngest son of James Lawrie, to Annette, youngest -daughter of the Rev. Francis Folyat;_ for it was the first time he had -seen words of his own in print. Lower down on the same page was a -short paragraph describing his father's appearance in the police -court, where, surely, the magistrate had seldom had such an -entertaining quarter of an hour. Old Lawrie pursued the argument begun -overnight with the policeman (Serge had the third movement of it) and -closed it with variations on an idea borrowed from Ruskin, that, -Society being responsible for every crime and misdemeanour committed -by its individual members, lots should be cast in each case as to -which citizen of a certain district should bear the brunt of it. This, -he said, would at any rate promote a feeling of responsibility towards -one's neighbour, and would in time lead each man to love his neighbour -as himself. When that came about there would be neither crime nor -misdemeanour. - -"Till then," said the magistrate, "I must administer the law as it -stands. I am not a philosopher, but it seems to me that the condition -you aspire to does obtain. Men do love their neighbours as themselves: -that is, very little." (Laughter.) - -James Lawrie, cotton-broker and journalist, was fined ten shillings -and costs. - -The Lawrie family read the report and pretended that they had not done -so. The Folyat family read it, and Mrs. Folyat, by continually -explaining it away, forced it on the attention of many people who -would otherwise never have heard of it. . . . She never forgave -Annette. She declared that they, as a family, were utterly disgraced, -would never hold up their heads again, that no one would ever call, -that there was nothing to be done except for Francis to retire and -them all to go and live in some place where no one had ever heard of -them before. It was a splendid opportunity for her talent for -inventing evils and calling monsters from the vasty deep, and she -wasted no moment of it. With her own foolish tongue she set so many -scandals going that, for a time, the clerical ladies were chary of -calling. The scandals reached the bishop's palace and were inquired -into. The bishop's wife, a kindly lady, laid them by calling, and, -more, by sending, as she had not done for some years, an invitation to -her garden-party. This so elated Mrs. Folyat that she forgot her gloom -and tears and set Mary to work on her best black silk gown. - -No member of the family, except Francis and Serge, visited Annette in -her lodgings in the house of the German woman. - -For the benefit of his mother and his fiancée, Frederic vowed that, -when next he met Bennett Lawrie, he would horsewhip him. - -"At least," said Mrs. Folyat for Serge's benefit, "I have one son who -is a man." - -* * * - -They might refuse to visit Annette, but they could not forget her. Now -that she was gone, they realised her more nearly than they had ever -done when the whole burden of their comfortable existence rested upon -her shoulders. Mrs. Folyat grew more and more querulous as the -household fell into worse and worse confusion. She demanded an extra -servant; Francis said they could not afford it. She dismissed the -hobgoblin, now a fully developed gnome, and, one after another, -engaged a series of incompetent, untidy, and immoral females. At last, -when one of them corrupted the washerwoman--the washing was done at -home in those days on a Monday and Tuesday--and drew her into a -wholesale conspiracy of theft, Mrs. Folyat, in despair, sent for Minna -and implored her to take the burden of housekeeping off her hands. -With a fair show of grace Minna set to, but it was not long before she -went to see Annette. Annette was delighted. The days without Bennett -were very long, and in their two rooms there was not enough work to -occupy her hands for the morning; also, very frequently, she had no -money at all and could not go out into the town. She thought, too, -that Mina's coming was a sign that her mother was on the point of -relenting. Annette never doubted that she loved her mother, and her -disapproval often weighed heavily on her spirit. - -With a child's pride in a new toy she displayed her two rooms and -Bennett's handiwork on the walls and wood and the bulrushes he had -painted in oils on the bathroom window. - -"What an awful street you live in," said Minna. - -"Is it?" Annette had never considered it æsthetically. It was the -place she lived in, the scene of her honeymoon. She had filled it with -romance and held it holy. - -"Ma says," remarked Minna, settling herself largely in Bennett's -wicker-chair so that she seemed to overflow it and fill the room,--"Ma -says that she is quite sure Bennett will take to drink." - -"I don't believe Ma could have said anything so odious." - -"Then you don't know Ma." - -Minna took stock of the room, and she was divided between pity and -contempt for her sister--pity that she should live in such a poor -place, contempt that she should be satisfied and pleased with it, and -she thought with a shudder of the day when the scales should fall from -the lovers' eyes and they should see themselves as they were, in that -place, as it was. Minna had so often opened her heart to love only to -expel it on finding it ridiculous that she could not conceive of any -affection as permanently seated. She was like an inept gardener, who -might plant spring flowers in his borders and deem it natural and -inevitable that summer and autumn should be empty of all save weeds. -She had cultivated a taste for falling in love, and always lost -patience with it before she came to love. - -She had come to ask Annette how she had contrived the more or less -smooth-running of household affairs in Fern Square and Burdley Park, -but found herself instead pondering marriage as here represented and -also as applied to herself. She asked Annette what she did all day -long. Annette told her: she sewed, mended, thought of Bennett, went -out to buy his supper. - -"A little different from home?" suggested Minna. - -"Of course," replied Annette, "I'd like more people. It's hard to make -it go all the day round when there's only one. But then, I read. I -usedn't to be able to do that." - -"How did you manage at home? I can't." - -"I don't think I managed at all. Bennett says I'm an awfully bad -manager. There were such a lot of things to do that they had to be -done." - -"How did you make the servant work?" - -"I didn't. I did it all myself. If she did anything I generally had to -do it all over again. She lit the fires in the morning and cleaned the -boots and all the nasty work. I think in their own homes they leave -all the rest undone." - -Minna rose from her seat and demanded to be shown the bedroom. This -was very ugly. She made a wry face. - -"Do you like it?--being married, I mean." - -Annette smiled. Musingly she said: - -"What a silly question!" - -* * * - -Minna returned to Burdley Park little enlightened but uneasy and -troubled. She went to the kitchen and worked, as she thought, very -hard, and scolded the servant and lashed herself into a state of anger -with things in general. By the evening she was entirely miserable. She -sat down in her bedroom and wrote to Basil Haslam: - - -"I am miserable. Things are getting worse and worse. You have often -scolded me for not taking things seriously enough. You little know me. -Do men ever know women? Do they ever take women seriously? Don't they -always fall back on the woman's instinct which they have invented as -an excuse for their own silence and reticence? . . . - -"I have been to see Annette. Poor child! It has upset me. I should -like to see you--to-morrow, if possible. Can you come? - "Yours, M." - - -She also wrote to Herbert Fry, on a sudden mischievous impulse which -she did not take the trouble to understand, she enjoyed it so -thoroughly: - - -"I am going to be married, and I hope to come to London. This place -isn't fit to live in, certainly not to be married in." - - -Her pen scrawled triumphantly as she added: - - -"Kind regards to Mrs. Fry. - "Yours, M." - - -She sent the letter to Mr. Fry's office address in London Wall. She -did not know where he lived. - -* * * - -Basil Haslam came next day bursting with sympathy and high hope. Minna -received him, for the sake of effect, in the kitchen. Like Charlotte, -she was cutting bread and butter. She had sent the servant out on an -errand. - -Basil came in very quietly, and made Minna think of a young -inexperienced doctor cultivating a bedside manner. However, she -repressed her desire to tease him and said: - -"I have learned my lesson." - -"What lesson?" - -"Something about a stalled ox." - -She scraped the butter very thin on the bread by way of heightening -her own sensation of a chastening poverty. - -"We shall be very poor," she said. - -"Oh, Minna! I will make you rich." - -"I suppose there is a lot of money in London." - -"Will you come to London with me?" - -"Didn't I say so in my letter?" - -Basil was always literal. He took out her letter and read it again. - -"Stupid," said Minna. "I meant it if I didn't say it." - -She laid down the knife and the loaf and submitted to her lover's -embraces. - -Basil could not contain his delight: - -"There's my one-fifty a year. I can make three hundred the first year, -five hundred the next, a thousand the next . . ." - -"A thousand!" - -"We'll live in a studio first of all. Then we'll live in a house and -give dinner to the dealers and editors. And then we'll live in a house -with a studio and the dealers and editors shall give dinner to us." - -"That will be fun," said Minna. - -Together they carried the tea-tray upstairs and broke the news of -their engagement to Mrs. Folyat. Frederic and Jessie Clibran-Bell were -there. They had been conspiring with Mrs. Folyat to bring about a -speedy wedding. With the assistance of Mr. Clibran-Bell Frederic had -been taking work on his own account and had made fifty pounds in a -year. Herbert Fry had assisted him by letting him act as his agent--on -condition that he had Frederic's agency work in London--and now there -was talk of his setting up in an office of his own, if his father -could guarantee him one year's expenses. - -Mrs. Folyat set all this before Basil and Minna, and excitedly they -planned a double wedding in two months' time. - -Mrs. Folyat saw in this project the chance of wiping out the stain of -Annette's offence. - -* * * - -Francis was approached that very night. He was for waiting. They could -sell no more of their Potsham houses, or there would be no provision -for their old age. (He had already begun to think dimly of retirement -to the softer south and a garden.) Mrs. Folyat, however, had set her -heart on the plan. She wheedled, cajoled, coaxed, scolded, suggested -scheme after scheme, until Francis agreed to sell his life-insurance -policy, but on condition that the proceeds were divided equally -between his children with the exception of Leedham, who was married to -a wealthy Portuguese widow, ten years his senior, in Rio . . . Mrs. -Folyat pounced on that, and next morning saw to it that he began to -take the necessary steps. - -Twelve hundred pounds were raised by this means. Serge disapproved and -disclaimed his share, so that the rest had two hundred and forty -pounds each. - -Frederic took an office near Serge's studio, engaged two clerks, and -was regarded as sufficiently established to enter into the state of -matrimony. - -There was an entertaining wedding. Bennett and Annette were invited -and formally taken back into the fold. Basil and Minna Haslam went to -London to spend their honeymoon in the studio they had taken in -Chelsea. Frederic and Jessie Folyat took a house next door but one to -James Lawrie's. There were many tears shed over the brides, and after -Mrs. Folyat had delivered herself of a sort of funeral oration _à la_ -Bossuet, Minna whispered to Serge: - -"Ma always did love a theatrical performance." - -"'Your son's your son till he gets him a wife,'" said Mrs. Folyat to -Frederic, and then to Minna she completed the tag, "'Your daughter's -your daughter the rest of your life.'" - -It was a very exciting and a very happy day in the Folyat household. -Mrs. Folyat chattered all the evening. Mary and Gertrude said not a -word and went silently off to bed, so that Francis was compelled to -escort his wife to her room and perform the innumerable little -services she required. - -"Doesn't the house feel empty?" she said. - -Francis mumbled. - -"I'm sure Annette is going to have a baby." - -"M-m-m-m." - -"I thought I was never going to be a grandmother." - -"You always were impatient," said Francis in an unexpectedly loud -voice. - -That was criticism, which she could not abide. Francis rued his -precipitancy. He was very unhappy about Frederic, but, he asked -himself, what could he do? What could he do? There was no doubt that -Jessie loved Frederic, but did not that, in itself, the more -dangerously expose her to his folly and weak selfishness? - -He hardly heard his wife's words as she went maundering on. In the -darkness he prayed that all might be, as he tried to believe, for the -best. - - - -XXVII - -GERTRUDE MAKES THE BEST OF IT - -_De quels ravissements nous privent nos intempérances._ - JOUBERT. - -WHEN Annette's baby--a boy--was born, Gertrude was the first to go and -see it. She took with her a woollen bonnet and a horn spoon. - -Having become capitalists with the enormous sum that had come to -Annette, they had left their lodgings for a little house in a row of -little houses each of seven rooms and a scullery. They had a little -maid, who opened the door to Gertrude. She was a tiny wizened creature -but very voluble. Gertrude was not a yard inside the house when she -had a full description of the baby, its layette, Annette's condition -and appearance, and the devotion of Bennett, who, she said, "never had -no eyes for nothink 'cept 'is ugly little wife." - -Gertrude was shown upstairs, to find Annette sitting up chattering to -an enormously fat woman, who was introduced to her as Mrs. Entwistle. -They were talking about Serge, of whom the fat woman expressed the -most glowing admiration. - -The baby, a very little one, ugly and blotched, was handed to -Gertrude, and she was properly ecstatic over it. Mrs. Entwistle said: - -"Eeh! Ow I did 'ave to slap 'is little buttocks to make 'im cry!" - -"Slap?" said Gertrude, rather horrified. - -"Eeh! Miss, didn't ye know that? Well, I never. Sometimes you 'ave to -fair leather into 'em." - -Gertrude held the baby in her arms and hugged him close to her breast. -She was feeling very mournful, and envy tugged at her heart. She said: - -"It's a very little house you live in." - -"Isn't it? But we love it. It's just big enough for the three of us." - -"How--how is Bennett?" - -"Oh! He's very well, and he gets more money now, though still very -little. I'm afraid we shall never have very much as long as he remains -in business, and if he left it I suppose we should have nothing. But -we don't think about it--much." - -"You must be very happy." - -Very mournfully Gertrude said this. She was disappointed. She had -fancied that when she held Annette's baby in her arms she would feel -all kinds of beautiful and exalted emotions. It was certainly pleasant -to feel its warmth, and to hold it, so helpless as it was, gave her a -genial sense of protection, but she was wanting, hoping for more than -that. And when Annette replied that she was very happy--she looked it -too--Gertrude realised painfully that she was brutally indifferent. - -The starving cannot rejoice with the well-fed. - -Gertrude felt her life trickling away through her fingers: worst of -all, though she was not conscious of it, her desire for life was -ebbing away from her. All the bitterness, all the hunger, all the hard -envy in her heart she translated into one word: "Old." She said to -herself: "I am getting old." . . . Having come to a concise and -rounded thought she was pricked by it into revolt, and she said -gently, at first, to Annette: - -"I envy you. I remember you when you were a little girl. I have always -thought of you as little, so that I have hardly known you. . . . And I -must have always seemed to you beyond your reach. Now it is you who -are beyond mine. Isn't it funny?" - -She gave the child to Annette, watched it blindly wriggling against -its mother's breast, and tears trickled down her nose on to the -counterpane. Annette was so engrossed in her boy that she did not -notice it, and Gertrude was at once ashamed of her tears, brushed them -away, and angrily, in her heart, accused Annette of selfishness. She -would have been so grateful only for a little pressure of the hand, a -little smile, something that would bid her come into the circle of -warmth, so radiant with the joy of the child. She was too timid, too -much taken up with pity for herself, to force her way in. She dared -not assume that she would be welcome, for she was too conscious of her -own awkwardness. - -She let slip the opportunity as she had spoiled so many. The conflict -in her soul left her bruised and sore, and she almost hated -Annette--Annette who had lied and cheated to take her lover. She -turned from her thwarted emotion to sentimentality, raked over the -ashes of the past, and artificially reconstructed the ruses and -strategems that she supposed Annette had used to capture Bennett -during her absence. . . . With effusive cordiality she kissed Annette -and the baby and promised often to come and see it. A little -awkwardly--she was not always tactful--Annette explained that -Bennett's sister was to be the baby's Godmother. That gave Gertrude -the handle she was seeking, and she persuaded herself that she had -deliberately been slighted. - -She went away almost without another word. On her way home she was -thrust by her fancied injuries into contemplating her future. As -people always do when they contemplate the future, she lost sight of -the infinite gradations which led from the point at which she stood to -the point on which her eyes were fixed, so that all her forward life -was presented to her mental vision as acid, cold, bitterly assailing -her without clemency. All her desire was to escape that future, and to -evade the phantoms conjured up by her own mind--a mind very similar to -her mother's and also infected by it--and to do so in a way that -should, if ever so slightly, prick Annette's conscience . . . - -Ideas are too often the gaolers of our souls, which, seeking health -and freedom, groping out of prison, take counsel of the first-comer, -an idea whom we have fee'd with prejudice and cowardice to stand guard -over us. Gertrude, seeking freedom from her home, from her own folly, -from herself, accosted the first-comer, Marriage, who, with a false -smile, opened a door and clapped her into another cell. This, being -larger than the other, she took for a place wide open to the winds of -Heaven, and passed from querulous fear of the future to excitement in -the immediate view. To be sure, she only saw four walls, but there was -more light on them, more air and mystery between her and them. . . . -Above all, nowhere in her cell could she see the figure of her sister -Mary, whom she had begun to detest, nervously and irritably. . . . -Mrs. Folyat had grown more and more incapable. The work of the house -was divided between Gertrude and Mary. Between the two there was a -grim struggle as to which of the two should make herself the less -indispensable to her mother. It was very certain, as both knew in -their inmost hearts, that if one of them were to be left, that one -would remain for ever, with nothing to do save to turn the hour-glass -when the sands ran out. Mary, being the weaker of the two, was the -more good-natured, and it was for Mary that Mrs. Folyat most often -called when she dropped her knitting-needle, or mislaid her -spectacles, or lost her book by sitting on it, or wished to play -Patience at some inappropriate hour. Everybody said Mrs. Folyat was a -dear old lady. She liked the character, clung to it and abused it. -Either Gertrude or Mary must be gobbled up by her selfishness. Both -Gertrude and Mary believed that their mother was a dear old lady. They -dreamed not that they were in revolt against her, but fancied--as it -seemed more heroical to do--that they were at grips in a fearful -struggle with life. They were both very near hysteria, Gertrude, after -her visit to Annette, being the nearer. - -* * * - -There came to live near the town at this time Mrs. Bradby-Folyat, an -aunt of the Folkestone Folyats, an old lady of much wealth, whose -estate was continually being augmented by legacies bequeathed by -irascible Bradbys and Folyats who were sickened by the attentions of -their legacy-hunting poorer relations. Mrs. Bradby-Folyat left her -relations alone, and the harvest of her wisdom was great. . . . Being -a lady of strong character and almost masculine intelligence she had a -great fondness for the weak and almost idiotic Streeten Folyat, who -long ago had abandoned his sheep-farm in Westmoreland and wandered -from one profession to another, shedding in each a portion of his -patrimony. Between journalism and market-gardening he spent several -months with his aunt at Boynton and amused himself in the town in -Frederic's company. Occasionally he visited the house in Burdley Park. -. . . Then he bought a small fleet of fishing-smacks at Scarborough, -sold them after ten months at a heavy loss and returned to Boynton. -His income had dwindled to four hundred. He bought houses in our town -and was quickly embroiled in a law-suit--his idleness made him -quarrelsome--and placed the case in Frederic's hands. By sheer luck -Frederic won the case and delighted the old lady at Boynton, who -insisted on considering that he had saved Streeten from ruin. She -invited Frederic and his wife to stay with her, and entrusted him with -the management of her estate. Frederic was almost delirious at this -access of fortune, and calculated that if the old lady lived for -another ten years he would make at least six thousand pounds. He was -in debt--he could not amuse himself with Streeten for nothing--and he -borrowed money from a friendly moneylender whose rate of interest per -cent. _per mensem_ seemed reasonable and low. - -When Frederic was not at Boynton Streeten was at Frederic's house, and -when Streeten was at Frederic's house there also was Gertrude. -Streeten was amazingly vain, a fop, and as eager to scan his features -in the glass as a little boy just on the verge of adolescence, who is -beginning to feel that the eyes of the world are upon him. Such men, -when no mirror is near, will turn to the nearest woman. If in her he -can see the faintest reflection of himself, pat he will fall in love -with it. . . . There were not many mirrors in Frederic's house. -Streeten turned to Jessie but saw only Frederic, to Gertrude then, and -he saw himself enlarged, heightened, dazzling. It was the most -bewildering reflection of himself that he had ever seen, and at once -he was prostrate before it. - -Almost before he could realise what had happened he was picked up, -thrust into a frock-coat and silk hat, taken to church, married to -Gertrude, and packed off for a honeymoon to Ilfracombe. He was very -bored and savage. He wanted to be at Boynton or amusing himself with -Frederic. - -It is one thing to steal glances at your own reflection when you think -no one is looking, quite another to be married to it, though the -mirror tell its tale never so constantly. - -It were too cruel, it were indecent, to write of Gertrude's honeymoon. - - - -XXVIII - -MOTHER AND DAUGHTER - -_Life . . . is like love. All reason is against it, and all healthy -instinct for it._ - EREWHON REVISITED. - -ON hearing of the capture of Streeten, celebrated in the most jubilant -strain by Mrs. Folyat, with a magnificently unjust comparison of her -new son-in-law with Bennett Lawrie, Minna wrote this letter to Mary: - - -"Mother Bub loves cutting her lamb up into chops. Did she fix him with -an eye? You know how she can bore into the back of a man's neck. I'm -almost sorry I missed the fun. I suppose she'll be better off than any -of us. We're beastly poor, the studio's always in a mess and we can't -get it straight. London is amusing but awfully big and callous. It -makes you feel that it never cares whether you're there or not, and -the river is almost the most human thing in it. Nobody seems to want -Basil's work. I suppose there are thousands of Basils all wanting to -do the same thing, and I suppose each Basil has a _me_ wanting a great -deal to eat and more pleasure and fun than is good for her, and not -caring particularly how much of his soul he has to sell to give it -her. The Folyats have a certain charm, but we're all selfish--except, -of course, dear old Ma, who always would have it that we got our -wickedness from Pa. Mother Bub has the charm of a basilisk, or a -fly-paper. I hope she will come to London, as it will be nice to -borrow money from her. - Dearest love, Mottle dear, - M. - -P.S.--Basil has just sold a drawing. Sausages and mashed for supper! -Also beer! - -P.P.S.--Did Bennett go to the wedding? How grateful he must have been -to Streeten for stepping into his shoes. - -P.P.P.S.--I wouldn't get married if I were you. And to think I might -have been a Countess! Willie Folyat lives in London--the Hearl of -Leedham, if you please. I hear he's turned out a horrid little prig. I -knew he would, I felt it in my bones. I have such clever bones. - M. H." - - -Mary was magnanimous and kept the letter to herself. She was -essentially good-natured and bore no malice. She was amused by Minna's -spite and did not believe a word she said. To her Gertrude was happy; -she was married, therefore she loved her husband and her husband loved -her. It was impossible for Mary to take a detached view, to tell black -from white, good from bad. She was mentally short-sighted and her -pleasures lay entirely in sentiment. She loved music as she loved -nothing else in the world, but her pleasure in it was the pleasure of -rhythm. Harmony touched her not at all. She had a sort of nervous -sensitiveness which made her extremely shy and unresponsive. A kind of -island existence was hers, and the island on which she dwelt was in a -perpetual fog. Every sound that reached her from without--and little -else but sound did reach her--was blurred. Voices more easily moved -her than actions or the expressions of a person's face. She had always -loved her father because of his soft, gentle voice, and when Serge was -in the house she was animated and more quickly interested in what was -going on around her. - -She accepted her defeat by Gertrude docilely enough, gave up the -majority of her pupils and much of her chamber-music and took up the -reins of the household. With only her father and mother to provide -for, it was fairly easy, and the expenses were so much reduced that -she was able to pay more wages and to procure a better class of maid. -Mrs. Folyat took a dislike to the maid, and all her service had to be -performed by Mary herself. - -Serge had fallen into the habit of taking supper with his family--his -father and mother and Mary--nearly every Sunday evening, and he was -exasperated by the petty attentions which his mother was continually -demanding. He had tried many a time to find a way to the heart of this -curious, stupid, yet gentle and kindly sister of his, but he had -always found it impossible to set her thoughts moving. She seemed to -have almost lost the capacity of thinking, and she had so little sense -of humour that any blunt statement of fact hurt her as a direct -attack. She showed in many ways that she was fond of him, but it was -as a dog is fond, with a mute uncomprehending sympathy. - -Serge fell back on action. Whenever his mother, in the metallic tones -of her querulous mood, asked Mary to fetch her book from the other end -of the house, or to unravel her knitting when she had dropped a -stitch, or to read to her because her eyes ached, Serge bustlingly and -rather ostentatiously forestalled his sister. There was never any sign -that he had produced any effect on mother or daughter. - -This went on for months. Existence in the house in Burdley Park passed -smoothly and placidly, and Francis seemed to be happy, as he had never -been, busy with his parish and greenhouse. He was silent for days -together, except that every now and then he would hum tunelessly to -himself, booming like a bumble-bee. He had every small joy that he -asked of the world and was content. He liked the new generation of his -parishioners better than the old, they were not so dour, and -everything seemed to him to be going well and happily. He saw Frederic -very seldom, and Annette very frequently, and Minna and Gertrude were -regular correspondents. Serge had not for a very long time asked him -for money, and for the first time for many, many years his expenses -and income were on good terms with each other. Best of all, Mrs. -Folyat had begun to see herself and her husband as a sort of Darby and -Joan, and sweetened her conduct to fit the character. Everybody said -you might go far before you could find a more delightful old couple. -They achieved a sort of celebrity. - -Mary too came in for her share of the general admiration, and her -devotion to her mother was by more than one tyrannous old woman -brandished over the head of a peevish and fading daughter. Mary recked -nothing of it, and it would have made no impression on her if she had. - -One Sunday, when her mother had rather explosively demanded her -spectacles, and Serge without a word had gone down to the dining-room -for them, and without a word had given them to her, a new idea came to -Mary. She sat stupidly gazing at her mother and very slowly she began -to think what would become of her if her father and mother were to -die. There was a loud-ticking clock in the room, and it said with -remorseless insistency: - -"I-shall-be-alone." - -This was a very dreadful idea to her. She strangled it. - -There is no getting rid of thoughts. If they are strangled their -corpses remain and rot in the mind, to its lasting detriment. This -idea remained in Mary's mind, cold and dead, and gradually poisoned -the sweetness of her nature. - -A fixed idea is a dead idea. - -* * * - -Mary's temper suffered, and she vented her spleen on her pupils to -such a degree that there came a time when she had only one left--the -youngest daughter of the sausage-machine manufacturing widower, all of -whose daughters she had instructed in turn in a polite mastery of the -violin. Her bi-weekly visits to his house had become part of the -routine of his household, and she was part and parcel of its -furniture, being fitted into the heavy dinner-parties when there was a -gap. At other entertainments she was never omitted and was as much -part of their colour as the faded best chair-covers that were taken -out for the occasion or the Japanese lanterns which illuminated them. -She was useful, for she was always willing to play the piano for hours -on end when the young people wanted to dance. To the widower, who -never saw her on other occasions, she was always associated with -gaiety. - -One day he proposed marriage to her, and she refused him. - -"Be sure," he said, "that I shall always be your friend. And I shall -continue to hope." - -He was really relieved at being rejected, and retired to cogitate the -extraordinary impulse which had driven him to do such a thing. He felt -very uncomfortable, for the fictions with which he had surrounded his -dead wife had been shaken. - -Mary left his house in a flutter. The man had always been kind to her, -he was an admirable father, and she had always respected him as a -solid man, though he was a little too Northernly solid to be taken -altogether seriously. His house was very comfortable, though ugly and -too reekingly prosperous, but the habit of years had made it a corner -of the equilateral triangle of her life. Its atmosphere was altogether -different from that of her home and delivered her from monotony. - -Her only feeling about his proposal of marriage was one of surprise. -She thought of it only materially and was not signally disturbed by it -until he sent her an extraordinary letter in which he sought to -explain away his behaviour. In the course of it he cut deeper in his -contemplation of the marriage--having been married--and had, -unwittingly, set his emotions stirring. Mary's emotions responded, but -her modesty plucked them back. She did not, she told herself, "love" -Mr. Hargreave, because, after all, he was only a common man who had -begun life as a boy in a smithy. It had been easy enough when she -thought of marriage as a mere translation from one house to another, -but, quite clearly, he was asking for a personal relation, and from -that she shrank, chiefly because it was a change from the custom of -years. When she desired a concrete objection she fished out from the -confusion in her mind the prejudiced idea that she would be a -stepmother; worse than that, a stepmother to children to whom she had -been a paid instructress, children moreover who had, upon occasion, -been so cruel to her that she had been unable to retort upon them or -to maintain discipline. . . . She read Mr. Hargreave's letter once -more and saw that she could not easily enter his house again, except -it were to leave her home. - -She left the matter for a day or two, did not reply, and failed to -attend for Violet Hargreave's violin lesson. A day or two more and she -received another letter from Mr. Hargreave in which he completely -abased himself, and, in his desire to be kind and to palliate the -affront he conceived himself to have put upon her, waxed tender and -was almost lyrical in her praises. - -She tried to write to him but could find nothing to say. Tears rolled -down and plopped on to the paper, and she grew hot and impatient with -herself. Clearly she must go to his house and reassure him. No sooner -had she resolved on that, than she felt that she could not explain -herself, that he would renew his proposal, and she would have to say -either "Yes" or "No." If "Yes," then a thousand and one objections -would rise in her mind. If "No," then it would become impossible for -her ever to enter his house again. - -She dried her eyes and resolved that she would go there and then and -get it over. It was evening. She could ask for one of the Hargreave -girls, leave a piece of music; she was familiar enough at the house; -no one would suspect the undercurrent. - -As she went downstairs her mother called to her. She could not find -"Johnny Ludlow" anywhere, and what had Mary done with it, and why was -she so careless? - -"I am not careless," replied Mary. "You were reading it yourself. You -must have left it in your room." - -"Johnny Ludlow" was found behind the cushions of Mrs. Folyat's chair. -Mary felt a gust of impatience as she gave the book to her mother. She -sat down suddenly, and with a desperate gulp she said very quickly: - -"Mr. Hargreave has asked me to marry him!" - -"You, my dear . . . Mr. Hargreave! He must be nearly sixty!" - -The word "sixty" chilled Mary. - -"Fifty-one," she murmured. - -"An old man like that . . . Really he ought to be ashamed of himself. -He ought to be preparing himself for his eternal life instead of -thinking of a wife. . . . And with all those children too." - -Mary's sense of justice was offended. - -"A great many widowers marry again for the sake of their children, -don't they?" - -"But Mr. Hargreave has two grown-up daughters." - -Again there was a chilly catch at Mary's heart, and she had a lump in -her throat. She said: - -"No one else has ever asked me to marry." - -It needed melodrama to move Mrs. Folyat; tragedy or tragi-comedy left -her blank. She was in no mood for general consideration, for she was -thinking with cold practicability of the need of the moment. When she -thought of the house without Mary it was as a place of absolute -silence. There were many evenings when Francis said never a word; many -again when he sat alone in his study or working in his greenhouse, and -only came up just before it was time to go to bed. Mrs. Folyat had a -horror of silence. . . . Mary must not go, she thought, Mary must not -go. She came swiftly to the point and asked: - -"Have you accepted him?" - -Unreasonably, in the face of experience, Mary had been expecting -sympathy; she so craved it. For a flickering moment she desired almost -viciously to lie, but she was hurt into truth. - -"No," she said. - -Mrs. Folyat sighed with relief and triumph. - -"Of course you couldn't," she said. "He is such a common man. . . . -Let us play Bézique." - -Mary fetched the cards and they played until Francis came up at ten -o'clock. She let him take her hand and went downstairs to the kitchen -to brew her mother's chocolate. She had lost all interest in Mr. -Hargreave, and she felt nothing at all. - -In her bedroom that night she found it quite easy to write to him. She -said that she trusted him to understand that she could not marry him, -and that it would be best in the circumstances if he found another -teacher for Violet. He had (she continued) always been very kind to -her. She was very grateful to him, and would think well of him, but -her duty lay towards her father and mother. - -So, without any ill-feeling she slipped into the part designed for her -by her mother. - -As she was writing to Mr. Hargreave, her mother said to Francis: - -"My dear, what do you think? That horrid old Hargreave has actually -proposed to Mary. Of course she refused him." - -"Poor Mary," said Francis. - - - -XXIX - -DISCUSSION - -_Will kein Gott auf Erde sein? - Sind wir selber Götter._ - W. MÜLLER. - -THROUGH the years Father Soledano had remained a fairly frequent -visitor at the house of the Folyats. His was the only really constant -intimacy that Francis enjoyed, and it was based on the kinship of -their humour and their common taste for mental caricature. Both -strangers to our town and dwelling outside its activity, they loved to -foregather and burlesque its politics, its manners, and its worship of -money. Father Soledano went further than Francis and poked his fun at -English institutions, though then he became malicious and Francis -could not see eye to eye with him. Francis had no politics save a -dislike for Mr. Gladstone and a distrust of Benjamin Disraeli and Lord -Salisbury, and he knew too little of modern English literature to be -able to appreciate the priest's sarcasms at the expense of Carlyle, -Ruskin, George Eliot, or Robert Browning. He had never heard of George -Meredith, but he became almost angry when Soledano scoffed at Dickens -and Thackeray. . . . - -Their discussions used to take place on Sunday evenings in the study, -and it often happened that Serge was present. One Sunday night when, -as often happened, Soledano, harked back to the Manchester murders, he -launched out upon a violent assault upon England, and quoted once more -words that were often upon his lips, words of the mother of Charles -Stewart Parnell: - -"'The English are hated everywhere for their arrogance, greed, cant, -and hypocrisy. They want us all to think they are so goody-goody. They -are simply thieves.'" - -"Oh! come, come," said Francis, "not so bad as that. After all we have -given the world a good deal and showed the way to other nations in -many things." - -"You have shown the other nations how to steal." - -"I don't think any nation, or any collective body of men who have -pooled their sense of right and wrong need much instruction in that," -said Serge. "It is simply a question of stealing from a body of men -weaker than themselves. Men in the mass are abominable. There isn't -anything to choose between England and France, or Italy, or the new -German Empire or America. England has been more successful than the -rest and has therefore had more opportunity of doing harm. . . ." - -"Good as well," put in Francis. "Good as well." - -"Only incidentally and by accident," retorted Soledano. "What I -contend is that you cannot have collective villainy and individual -virtue, collective bad action and individual good action." - -"You can't indict a nation," said Serge. - -"I can and I do." - -"Then you are not so clever as I thought. There is no such thing as -collective action, there is only the action of individuals. You herd -men together so that they may carry out the will of individuals, and, -as in the present condition of society, the most cunning and -cold-blooded and unscrupulous men survive to exercise their wills over -the herd. What is produced by the herd is almost always bad, because -their efforts are directed only towards base ideals. . . . In the long -run it may be a good thing to gather men together into huge masses for -the easier and more expeditious creation of wealth and the means of -subsistence. I don't know. I can't see into the future. But you and my -father know--who better?--how the poor are being ground down in this -town, and it must be the same in every other. What appals me is that -there is no sort of corrective to the base ideal of success and -accumulated wealth and what is called power except the blind revolt of -nature in man and woman--especially woman. There is absolutely -nothing. There are a certain number of artists in this town, men of my -own trade, but they all seem to be doing their work from the dealer's -point of view, to produce a saleable article, and not for the sheer -delight of exercising a talent, without which the result cannot give -delight. The theatres are even worse: they are fed from London with -stupid replicas of pieces designed to give the illusion of pleasure -rather than pleasure itself. The newspapers will soon be nothing but -advertising sheets. It will soon be impossible for any man to do his -work with any joy in it. It is bad enough when a man wastes himself in -feeding his own vanity, but when he is used only to feed the vanity of -another man then there is absolutely no hope for him. There might be -something said for an arrangement by which a man gave a certain number -of hours of his day to joyless work, so that during the rest he can -take joy in other things. But all these men who are doing work in -which there is no reward at all are paid so little that they are -shattered by financial anxiety. They marry wives whom they cannot -afford to keep and produce children whom it is impossible for them to -feed and educate. . . . England is in a bad way, Father. It seems to -me rather unfair to attack her when she is down." - -"The greatest Empire the world has ever seen!" said Father Soledano -mockingly. - -Francis looked thoughtful. He lit his pipe and said: - -"I wish I understood what you are talking about, Serge." - -"I want a corrective," answered Serge. "All this material organisation -may be a good thing in the long run, but spiritual health is every bit -as important as physical health--more. They're organising education -now, but towards no ideal save the base ideal of cunning unscrupulous -men--self-help, and all that. A man's life consists of only two -things, work and love. At present love is wiped out of consideration -altogether, and work is regarded as a damned unpleasant thing that has -to be stomached. At present a man must be either a slave or an -employer of slaves, that is, a slave who is promoted. If you promote a -slave to the condition of a free man he goes bad, because he has the -soul of a slave and cannot live except under tyranny. If he escapes -from the tyranny of a man he seeks that of his own vices. . . . If you -educate men as slaves they will be slaves, just as your Loyola said, -Father--every child who passed through the Jesuits' hands remained -theirs for ever. . . . You get revolt every now and then as in the -French Revolution and in 1848, but that is nothing but the desire of -the slaves of poverty for the slavery of wealth." - -"Christopher Sly," said Soledano, "will always be Christopher Sly. If -you are stupid enough you can stand anything. Men are stupid. That is -the whole story. When you have said that you have said everything." - -Serge brought his fist down on the table. - -"I don't believe it. If, inspired by a base ideal, they can do all -that they have done, they can, when inspired by a noble ideal, the -simplest and most beautiful of all, the ideal of a life of love and -work, do better yet and gain material well-being in justice through -spiritual health." - -"Bah!" said Soledano. "That is your English idealism. Men can only -understand a base ideal. They are impelled only by one -instinct--hunger. They are terrified of hunger and fight only to -protect themselves against it. All their other instincts, even the -instinct of reproduction, have to take their chance--a very poor one. -Also my friend, your idealism is just a joke to women. Life is too -serious, too immediately appalling for them, for they are just as -cruelly driven by their instinct of reproduction as they are by the -instinct of hunger." - -"Very well, then," said Serge, "drop the idealism and call it -practical good sense. Concentrate on the instinct of hunger and the -instinct of reproduction and organise for the satisfaction of both." - -"It is impossible. You are asking men to be intelligent. The English -will never be that." - -Father Soledano said good-night to Francis and held out his hand to -Serge. - -"I'm coming with you," said Serge. - -"Still unconvinced?" - -"Absolutely convinced that I am right." - -They drove back in a cab to the priest's house in the asphalted -courtyard under the cathedral. - -"Will you tell me," asked Serge, "how you reconcile what you have said -this evening with what you say in your Church?" - -"I don't." - -"Can you go on?" - -"Like the rest of the world, I do what I am told. If I examined and -scrutinised everything that I was told to do I should do very little -of it. . . . On the whole we do good. We save a certain number of men -from sinking into brutality, and to a certain number of others we give -an outlet for their emotions, which amounts to the same thing." - -"How much do you believe of what you tell them?" - -"I have never examined my belief. Like your father, I do what I am -told to do. Suppose I renounced my faith and the priesthood. My place -would be taken by another. There are too many men, my friend, too many -women, and life moves both too slowly and too swiftly . . . What can -you do? You say that the good life consists wholly of work and love. -Then work, my friend, and love. There is nothing to prevent you. I -also work, and I also love. Very lovingly I despise men, because I -know them, as you, I think, do not." - -"Quite candidly, it seems to me cowardly and rather despicable to -teach men to believe in another life beyond the grave." - -"Life, as it is, must be made supportable." - -"From within, not from without." - -"You seem to be levelling an accusation at my Church, but you must be -just and observe that we do display, for the benefit of the men whose -souls are our care, a certain faith in the next life by renouncing the -pleasures of this." - -"You stifle an instinct. That seems to me as great a sin as abusing it -by excess of the pleasure derived from its satisfaction." - -"I find your point of view interesting, but too naïve and simple. The -idea of original sin may be fanciful, it may have its origin in -Oriental myth, but there is contamination from some source or other." - -"Simply from a wrong interpretation of life. I say it is possible for -men to understand life." - -"It is quite impossible. They can only live it." - -"Then there is absolutely no meaning in all their activity, all their -inventions, all their discoveries . . ." - -"I can see none. They are still the slaves of hunger. When you appease -the hunger of the body there remains the hunger of the spirit." - -"Exactly, and I contend that in the hands of intelligent men the -machinery in their power could satisfy the bodily hunger of all men, -and set them free to find satisfaction for the hunger of the spirit. -. . . As I see it, it is towards that that the world is tending. There -will be a great deal of cruelty and oppression by the way, but there -will come a time when man's mastery of the world will be so great that -anything save the most elastic organisation will make life intolerable -for rich and poor alike. As you say, if you are stupid enough you can -endure anything. Men are more intelligent now than they were fifty -years ago. They will be ten times as intelligent fifty years hence. -. . ." - -"Look at home, my friend. Look at home." - -"I do. And it is just that absurdly pathetic tragi-comedy that makes -me scan the world to see what hope there is for future generations. -. . . You make the mistake of taking men as you find them. I take -myself and discover what I might be, to what I might grow if I could -get my fill of friendship, and affection, and love." - -"Love is of God." - -"God is in Man. I take myself, as I say. There is much in myself that -I despise, even as you despise men, but there is in myself an essence -which I know to be unconquerable and free. That you translate into -another world and call God and eternal life. You postpone freedom, -because to you the crust of slavery seems impenetrable. I want freedom -for that essence in myself here and now. It is the fiercest instinct -in me, stronger than hunger, stronger than reproduction, which are -only by the way. What I find in myself I believe to exist in all other -men." - -"But then," said Father Soledano, "you have never done as you were -told." - -Serge laughed and took his leave. - - - -XXX - -FREDERIC IN THE TOILS - -_O, you shall have him give a number of those false faces ere he -depart._ - EVERY MAN OUT OF HIS HUMOUR. - -SUPERSTITION will have it that marriage is a good thing, and, being -one of the most powerful agents in human affairs, forbids discussion -of its pseudo-axiom. Superstition uses marriage as a club with which -to lay men and women low. Sincerity insists on examining marriage, and -discovers that there is no such thing, as superstition interprets it. -Society does not marry people, neither does the Church. Society and -Church can only record what they are told. Men and women marry -themselves by as much free will as they possess, and their marriage -will be good or bad or both in the degree in which they are good or -bad or both. If their marriage is good it will endure. If it is bad it -will come to an end and it will none the less be at an end though -superstition insist that the parties to it continue miserably to dwell -under one roof and never seek outside it the love they have suffered -to escape. Superstition refuses to countenance divorce--a dissolution -of the bond as free as the making of it--and smiles blandly upon every -hideous captivity so long as it comes not to public knowledge. . . -Superstitious persons are perpetually setting their faces against -Nature's subtle and ingenious provisions for every emergency, but, it -is to be observed, that if you set your face against anything in -Nature, it will simply go round the other way and hit you in the back -of the neck, exactly at the moment when you are congratulating -yourself on having made a comfortable provision for the mature years -of your life and a ripe and venerable old age. - -They were very superstitious persons who lived near Frederic and -Jessie Folyat, and they smiled benignantly upon their young marriage. -Every morning several old ladies and more than one old gentleman -peeped out of their dining-room windows to see Jessie walk down the -garden on Frederic's arm and kiss him at the little iron gate. - -"Ah!" they said, "young love! Young love! There is nothing like it." - -And this in the face of their own appalling experience and the fact -that Frederic and Jessie were neither of them very young: but -superstitious persons realise very little of all that happens to them -and they see even less of what is presented to their eyes. It was -enough for these people that Jessie and Frederic were newly married, -and they kept them in their minds as newly married long after they had -settled down and the exciting novelty had given way to day-to-day -habit. - -Frederic never saw the heads at the windows as he hurried away to his -office, but Jessie saw them, and more for them than for any -satisfaction of her own she maintained the practice of kissing her -husband. In the evening she would go down to the little gate and kiss -him again as he arrived. - -"Ah! Lucky man!" the audience would sigh in their withered, -sentimental old hearts. - -When Frederic did not come Jessie would turn and visibly wilt under -the gaze of the superstitious persons, who muttered to themselves: - -"Poor little bride! Poor little bride!" - -At length there came a time when on four evenings in succession -Frederic did not come, and on the fourth evening Jessie could not -bring herself to turn and walk up the path alone. She went out into -the street, round the corner, and in at the kitchen door, and not -again for a long time did she go down to the little iron gate in the -evening. - -* * * - -Frederic was a liar of the common type, which indulges in absurd and -useless exaggerations. When he bought a neck-tie at a cheap hosier's -for half-a-crown he would say he got it at a more fashionable shop for -seven-and-six, though the name of the maker was sewn inside it. When -he borrowed money he would ask for three times as much as he wanted. -When he walked three miles he always stretched them out to ten. His -lying was for his own benefit first of all, and it was to help in -deceiving himself that he extended it to other people. His income was -always estimated at at least three times too high a figure, and his -expenditure, which also he blew out to convince himself of the truth -of his estimate, always exceeded it. Jessie had two hundred a year: he -persuaded himself that she had five hundred, and forced many quarrels -upon her because she came to him with bills for household expenses. -. . . Time and again did Jessie find him out in his lying, but, as he -always carried it into their intimate relation and multiplied the -nothing that he gave her to the _n_th power, she was appeased; but -imperceptibly she was contaminated, and in spite of her many anxious -moments as to their solvency, contracted the habit of lying to her -family as to her affairs and the state of Frederic's business. This -was, in fact, unhealthy. Outside the management of the Bradby-Folyat -estate there was very little work that could bring in any solid -profit, though in his office there was an air of bustling activity due -to the fairly constant stream of small county-court and police-court -cases, which came to him as a tribute to his prowess as a liar. Being -what is called a gentleman, he could lie from a coign of vantage, and -a number of small shopkeepers and shady customers came to Lawyer -Folyat, though, when there was any danger of a skilful -cross-examination, they soon learned to avoid him. Still, there was -enough business in the office to go to Frederic's head: he was one of -those men who are perpetually intoxicated, though they never touch -alcohol and may be, frequently are, ardent temperance reformers. Every -case that came into his office became four or five in his mind, and he -never doubted but that he was building up a large, solid, and -flourishing business. He had all the air of a successful man, -hoodwinked many innocent persons and very soon had two young men as -articled clerks, whose premiums went to swell his banking account. He -was what is called generous, gave for the pleasure of being thanked, -and lavished presents on his wife, his mother, his mother-in-law, his -sisters, and Jessie's sisters. He thought for a long time of paying -his father back some of the money that had been disbursed for him, -thought it over so long that at last he believed he had repaid it and -patted himself on the back as a dutiful son. . . . When he had moments -of doubt--and they were very awful when they came--he would go to his -mother and she would cluck over him like an old hen, and tell him he -was the most grateful, the most affectionate, the most generous, and -truly thoughtful of her children. He would gulp down her flattery and -win back to self-deception, without which it had become impossible for -him to face his wife, whom he was for ever pestering with absurd -questions like "Do you love me?" "How much do you love me?" "Would -anything ever make you cease to love me?" And when she replied as best -she could with exaggerated demonstrations he hardly listened to her. -. . . Truly in their relationship it was he who played the feminine -part. - -When Jessie was with child he lied to himself about his son, saw -himself building up a great firm for his inheritance, and from the -very first moment being a hero to the little fellow. He began to feel -irresistible and so tormented his wife with his swaggering that she -protested by mentioning one or two awkward little facts. She brought -down on herself such a storm of anger that her nerves gave way and she -had a fit of hysteria. . . In a week she was brought to bed of a -miscarriage. - -She was not very ill, but she suffered terribly, for Frederic hardly -spoke a word to her for ten days, and then he arranged for her to go -and stay at the sea alone, unless she chose to take one of her sisters -with her. She would not do that and she went alone. He promised to -spend Saturdays and Sundays with her, but at the end of each week he -declared that it was impossible for him to get away. . . . He was -hardly responsible for his actions. The most glorious fiction he had -ever created had come toppling down and he was not altogether to blame -for the breach which gaped so wide between himself and his wife that -he could not avoid seeing it. She, too, had missed her opportunity, -for she was so oppressed by the physical ugliness of the calamity that -she was frozen by it and could not give him the warmth that might have -saved him from still further floundering in the morass. . . . As it -was, he was savagely resentful against her and missed not the pettiest -occasion of hurting her. Under this treatment her love died almost -without a struggle, so painlessly indeed that she attributed all her -hurt and her agony to the discovery that came to her by the sea, that -Frederic had never loved her. She saw that clearly and was instantly -filled with dread lest she should betray herself and let him feel that -she knew. . . . Every letter she wrote to him was carefully framed to -convey a picture of herself as loyal, tender, devoted, proud, -and--with the most cunning falsity of all--admiring. These letters -soothed Frederic. He had found it difficult to admire his own -brutality, though, as he moved further away from it, it was distorted -by the prism of his vanity into something very like strength. That -accomplished, it became an easy task to cover over the unpleasant fact -of the disaster so that it became as a pearl upon his shell. - -He was loftily forgiving when Jessie returned, and she was softly, -cushionly submissive. For the first time--love being dead--she let -loose upon him the full force of her sex. He was still sensitive -enough to feel repelled, even as he yielded. - -Their house was filled with stealthy shadows. It grew darker and -darker. Each sought to illuminate it with lies, lies, and yet more -lies. - -At first, as usual, his lies gave him the illusion of greater freedom, -and he heightened the illusion by treating Jessie with less and less -consideration. He gulped down the forced admiration she gave him and -was always trying to squeeze more of it out of her. When he was in a -mood of self-abasement she admired the loftiness which could stoop to -acknowledge its defects, and quickly he was riding off again with his -head full of himself as the kindest of husbands, the best of sons, the -most irresistibly successful of men. Such glaring divergence presented -itself to his mind as consistency. - -Such a state of things imposed a heavy strain upon Jessie. She was not -always quick enough to follow him in his snipe-like flights. Sometimes -when he was accusing himself of neglect and thoughtlessness and lack -of consideration for her, it seemed to her that it would be easiest -and might afford both of them relief if she agreed with him. Then his -vanity writhed and furiously he would cry: - -"You are always finding fault with me. . . My mother thinks me -perfect." - -It is impossible to be wise where love is not, and Jessie could not -learn discretion. He was so extraordinarily convincing in his -self-reproach that she always forgot the lessons of caution she had -set herself in his absence. - -Still he would force endearing phrases upon her and caresses and -demand to be told that she loved him. Her parrot-cries appeased him, -and, feeling confident that she loved him, in stealthy small ways he -began to betray her, indeed, where before he had only dared to be -false to her in thought. He absented himself from his house to seek -the company of flattering fools. He returned at longer and longer -intervals to stoke up the furnace of his wife's love. . . . He was -like a child who, having built a house of cards, removes first one -card and then another from the base and leaves only enough to keep the -edifice ominously swaying. - -* * * - -Do what he would, Frederic was slowly forced into retreat. It is -impossible for life to stand still. If it cannot move forward it will -plunge backward. Life is for ever seeking its channel, love. . . . -Frederic was borne backward, and it was not long before he came to the -thought of Annie Lipsett. Easily he persuaded himself that he had been -treated with injustice, and thwarted by interference from doing what -was right. Pitying himself, he began to pity her, and, in a tremendous -orgy of self-righteousness, told himself that he ought to make amends, -and at least, even if he could do nothing, let her know that he had -not forgotten her. It did not occur to him that she might have -forgotten him: impossible to conceive that she could wish to. - -Though he was on a considerably more amiable footing with his father, -he could not broach the subject with him. As far as Francis was -concerned it was buried, and was not to be exhumed. Frederic turned to -Serge, and by hints and semi-questions drew his own conclusion that -Serge was still in touch with Annie. He left it at that and waited, -and took to frequenting Serge's company enough to form a fairly -accurate idea of his habitual movements. These still included frequent -excursions into the country, for Serge found a good market for -water-colour drawings of the semi-urbanised fells and dales of -Lancashire, and the little towns so tucked away into a narrow valley -that from one side of them you could see across the smoke to the hills -and the green country beyond. - -One day, when he knew that Serge was out on an expedition, Frederic -visited his studio and ransacked it. He found two letters from Annie -Lipsett and from them became possessed of her history. Serge's friend, -the farmer, had married six months before and Annie had had to come to -town again to earn her living as best she could. Serge had procured -her a situation in a dressmaker's, and she was in lodgings in a suburb -not very far away from Annette's little house. - -Frederic wrote a very cautious little letter on his office paper, and, -in a spasm of jealousy of Serge, enclosed a five-pound note. The money -was returned two days later without any reply. He sent it back again, -imploring her to take it if she had a single friendly thought of him -or any wish for his happiness. (He heaved an enormous sigh as he wrote -the word--happiness). The five-pound note was returned again. He -guessed, rightly, that Serge was responsible, and he swore that he -would not be ousted from his rightful position as benefactor to the -woman he had wronged. Was not his own happiness wrecked? Could he not, -by this means, restore it? . . . He was persuaded that he could. - -He left his office early, and with a hectic sort of elation in the -adventure--it was so much more exciting than the idea of returning -home--set out to discover the house in which Annie Lipsett lived. He -waited at the corner of the street until he saw her coming. She was -with Serge. Furiously he turned and strode away. - -The next evening he waited for her. She was alone. With Byronic gloom -he stood in front of her and said: - -"Annie!" - -She caught her breath and stepped back a pace. - -"Please," she said. "No! I thought you would understand." - -"I understand nothing," said Frederic; "nothing except that my life is -miserable, wrecked, a thing of captivity and torture." - -"You mustn't come to see me. It isn't right. . . . Your . . ." - -"It is right," said Frederic. "It has all been wrong, but this is -right." - -(He knew his language was stilted, but he could not give himself time -to revise it.) - -Annie said simply: - -"Please, Mr. Frederic, it isn't any good. It was all over long ago. -Your way and my way aren't the same." - -Frederic walked with her down the street, and found it hard to keep up -with her, she went so swiftly. He made one last effort and said: - -"I want to see the child . . . Our own was . . ." - -Annie had heard about that from Serge. She turned to him and held out -her hands: - -"I'm so sorry. . . . You shall see him just this once, if you'll -promise me never to come again . . . and he is not to know who you -are. He has never heard of you." - -The unconscious cruelty of her words did not penetrate Frederic's -mind. The situation appealed to him as a situation. He was becoming a -connoisseur, and the ironically bitter savour of this tickled his -palate. With offensive humility and gratitude he said: - -"Thank you . . . Thank you." - -* * * - -The boy was in bed sleeping, with the clothes tumbled by his -restlessness and his arms flung across his face. - -"He is such a good boy," said Annie; "he has always been good and -happy." - -"He is like you," said Frederic. "I am glad I have seen him. I am glad -to have found you again." - -"Will you go now?" - -Frederic was startled. Her simplicity and gentleness had sobered him. -He had grown so used to swaggering from situation to situation that it -was alarming to find this, which should have been the most touching -and moving and the most honourable to himself, dissolved by the light -touch of sincerity. It was all the more disconcerting, inasmuch as he -had made no allowance for change in Annie. In their previous -acquaintance she had been as adroit and as eager as he in the game of -False Positions, which is the principal occupation of human beings all -the world over. He had taken her rejection of his proffered assistance -as another move in the game, and lo!--here she was simply ignoring the -past and out of a purely general sort of friendliness allowing him to -see her son, and when he had seen, requesting him to go! He was -humiliated, but still so astonished that, though all his desire was to -play upon her pity and so to drag her back to the old footing, he -could not find words keen enough for his purpose. He heaved great -sighs and fixed her with sorrowful and yearning eyes, but she gazed -only at the child, busied herself with his bed, put up her hand to the -gas jet and waited until Frederic was out of the room before she -turned it low. - -He waited for her in the passage. - -"Tell me," he said, "how you are off for money. You shall not want. -. . ." - -"I make my living. I like my work." - -"I couldn't bear to think of you suffering through me." - -Annie looked at him with that disarming directness that was unfamiliar -to him: - -"I have suffered," she said. - -Frederic went away. - -* * * - -It was not long before he had persuaded himself that she had -deliberately plotted to humiliate him, by meeting his generosity--had -he not been generous?--with what he called "beastly pride." -Generosity, in his dual scheme of the world, should find its -complement in a grovelling gratitude. Generosity was the prerogative -of the male, gratitude the privilege of the female. That a woman -should show self-reliance and fling back a man's generosity, suspect -him most of all when he brought gifts, offended him as an indecency -. . . After all if the woman does not take her cue from the man where -is he? How can he continue to play his part? What becomes of the human -drama? - -Frederic's reflections of course were more particular than this, but, -generalised, they would amount to the same thing. The world (_i.e._ -Frederic) was so dishonest that honesty (_i.e._ an honest person, -Annie) seemed to be offending against all the rules of the game, and, -since the world is under the illusion that its whole existence depends -on the game, it devotes its energy to the suppression of honesty. -. . . Frederic told himself that he had a right to assist the woman, -who was defiantly happy in the face of her sin, while he, her partner -in that sin, was properly wretched and conscience-stricken and -honestly desirous of making amends. He would obey his conscience--that -must be right!--regain his self-respect and compel gratitude from -Annie. - -"We shall see!" he said, having partially restored his belief in his -own rectitude and irresistibility. - -He took to sending toys and little garments for the boy. They were -returned to his office. - -He went to Annie's rooms to find that she had flown. The devil of -obstinacy was roused in him, and he bribed her landlady to procure her -new address. He called but was refused admittance. . . . Then one -morning he waited and followed her to her place of business and -thereafter waylaid her several times. She was quite amiable but -absolutely unyielding. One day as he was walking along by her side -breathlessly pouring into her ear a tale of self-pity, -self-accusation, self-abasement, entreaty for forgiveness, a word of -kindness, extravagant out-pourings of love for the boy and his brave, -splendid, true-hearted mother, all mixed together most adroitly with a -complacent masculine belief in the softness and gullibility of the -female heart, they met Serge. Annie called to him. Serge came at once. - -"Take me home," she said. - -Frederic caught hold of her arm and solemnly abjured her not to break -his heart, to believe in him, to believe that he only was her friend. -. . . - -"Let her go, you swine," said Serge, and thrust Frederic away. - -They were in a crowded thoroughfare. It had been raining and the -streets were very muddy. It was evening and clerks and shop assistants -were hurrying home. No one paid any attention to the little group. The -stream of people parted, passed round them, closed again, and moved -on. . . . The cold anger in Serge's tone infuriated Frederic. He saw -it all now. It was Serge who was thwarting him. Serge who at every -turn was thrusting humiliation upon him. He lost count of everything -in hatred of Serge. He had a stick in his hand. He raised it and -struck blindly. The stick was wrenched away, he received a terrific -blow on the point of his chin, his feet slipped from under him, and he -went down. . . . By the time he was up again Serge and Annie had -disappeared. No one paid him any heed, only, a few yards away, -grinning from ear to ear, he saw the boy from his office. - -He hailed a cab and drove home. Jessie was alarmed at his condition, -but her alarm gave way to pride as he told her how he had seen a man -break a shop-window and run away with a handful of jewels--a huge, -burly man, and how he had given chase, caught up with him, and after a -tremendous struggle--the man knew a good deal about wrestling--held -him until the arrival of the police. . . . What with the soothing -influence of having his wounds tended, and the interest of his story, -Frederic found it not at all difficult to recover from the degradation -of the scene in the street and its outcome. He was so gentle and -caressing, so apparently without thought beyond the moment, that -Jessie began flutteringly to whisper to her heart that perhaps she had -been wrong, perhaps, after all, Frederic had really loved her from the -beginning. Both indulged in the luxury of forgiveness and fond -indulgence, and they were like a shyly self-conscious couple on -honeymoon. - -* * * - -Honeymoon folly is weakening, and next day Frederic had small power of -resistance against his own miserable thoughts. His office-boy smirked -when he saw him, and in the afternoon he grinned with a damnable -familiarity as he announced Mr. Serge Folyat. Serge came in on his -heels, caught the boy by the ear and thrust him out through the door. -Frederic sank back into his chair, did his best to draw on his -professional manner and sat with his fingertips pressed together and -his lips pursed up. - -Serge said: - -"I've come to beg your pardon. I lost my temper." - -Frederic could find nothing to say. Serge went on: - -"Let us, if we can, discuss the matter on a friendly footing. You made -a beast of yourself by pestering a woman. I made a beast of myself by -hitting you. Now we know where we are. . . . We're likely to meet at -home and other places where any obvious hostility would be -embarrassing. . . ." - -"I don't wish to meet you at home or anywhere else." - -"It will be difficult to avoid. I think we had better settle the case -out of court. Isn't that what you call it?" - -Frederic tugged at his waistcoat and looked almost dignified as he -said: - -"I have no wish to interfere in your affairs. I will thank you not to -meddle with mine." - -"It happens, however," replied Serge, "that our affairs have -overlapped. I must ask you to withdraw." - -"And if I refuse?" - -"Then it will become necessary for me to knock you down whenever I -find you in my way. . . ." - -"May I ask. . . ?" - -"What I am getting out of it for myself? I was foolish enough to -believe that you would not look for an interested motive. . . . The -position is this. . . . You shirked a responsibility which I have had -the pleasure and the privilege of assuming. Your beastly jealousy -resents that, and you seem bent on taking up that old responsibility. -There are two reasons why you should not do that--first, because it is -too late; second, because your attempt to do so is an insult to your -wife . . ." - -"Keep my wife out of it." - -"If you will tell your wife and ask her permission to make a -settlement upon the boy . . ." - -"You know I can't do that. I can't afford it." - -"Then leave it alone." - -"No." - -"You'll take the consequences?" - -"I'll take the consequences and be damned to you. . . . It's a fine -thing to do, isn't it?--to take a woman when she's gone under?" - -"My dear brother," said Serge, "you are the most childish little -blackguard . . ." - -"I'm man enough, any way, to stand up for my own rights . . ." - -"When you learn that you have no rights you'll be a man . . . In a way -you are right. My brother is not my keeper. I should prefer not to let -the thing go any further, for your wife's sake. . . ." - -"Keep my wife out of it!" - -"Good-bye, then . . . You insist on being a fool?" - -"I shall do as I think best." - -The office-boy announced another client and Serge went away. - -* * * - -Frederic continued to waylay Annie Lipsett, but could never meet her -without Serge, who called for her at her house in the morning and at -her place of business in the evening. He wrote to her and implored her -to give him an opportunity of explaining himself. (He had begun to -believe, without reference to Jessie, whom he kept in a separate -compartment of his mind, that he loved Annie, had never ceased to love -her, and that a declaration of love would break down her resistance.) -She did not reply and he wrote at great length explaining his desire -to set her beyond anxiety, and hinting at the fires that were raging -in his bosom, fires which he stoked with unceasing care. - -At last he had a letter from her. She wrote: - - -"DEAR MR. FREDERIC,--Please, please believe that I want nothing from -you, that I am happier as I am. I don't want my boy ever to know who -his father was. He is mine by all the love I have given him. I could -not share him with you, and to let you do anything for him would be -sharing, wouldn't it? I have thought no ill of you for a long time -now. I was to blame just as much as you. That is all over. You cannot -take me into your life, therefore I cannot take you into mine . . ." - - -Frederic was interrupted in the reading of it and slipped it into the -pocket of his coat. - -His long absences had begun to stir jealousy in his wife. She was -spying on him. She found the letter, her jealousy burst into flame, -and thereafter was no peace in Frederic's house, nor any moment of -sweetness and ease. - -Once more, with horrible hypocrisy, Jessie resumed her habit of -walking with her husband to the little iron gate in the morning, and -meeting him there in the evening, and the old ladies and gentlemen, -who had been a little anxious, peered through their windows and smiled -their blessings. - -Mrs. Folyat always said that Frederic's house reminded her of Eden -before the Fall. - - - -XXXI - -NEWS FROM MINNA - -_"Sir" cries Adams, "I assure you she is as innocent as -myself."_ - JOSEPH ANDREWS. - -MRS. FOLYAT found the position of a grandmother entirely to her -liking--the maximum of opportunity for beatific clucking with no -responsibility. Annette had three children, Gertrude two, and Minna -two, and Mrs. Folyat had already a large collection of their sayings -for quotation in company, the most popular being an ode addressed by -Annette's second boy to Mr. Gladstone, who had visited our town -several times when its allegiance to the Liberal cause began to waver. - -Minna brought her two children to stay in Burdley Park. They came for -a fortnight and stayed four months. They would have stayed longer but -that Francis began to be anxious and, after a good deal of cogitation, -shyly questioned Minna as to her husband's doings. - -"Basil is having a bad year," said Minna. "We're horribly poor -sometimes. Rents in London are so dear." - -"Even so," said Francis, "it seems hardly wise to leave him for so -long." - -"We have rows." Minna seemed to be quite cheerful about it. "Poor -people always do have rows. They get so afraid, that they can't enjoy -anything else." - -"I was beginning to think that something serious might have happened." - -"Oh, no. I'm still Basil's 'darling wife' when he writes to me, and he -is my 'devoted husband.'" - -"Marriage," said Francis, "is very difficult." - -"Of course it is, to anybody who isn't an angel like you. . . . I'll -go back and try again." - -Francis sucked at his pipe thoughtfully. - -"I oughtn't to tell you this," he said, "but Annette ran away once." - -"Did she?" - -"Yes, after breakfast. She was back again in time to give Bennett his -tea." - -* * * - -Two days later Minna returned to London. The day after she had gone, -Basil appeared with a drawn, miserable face. He asked Francis if he -might speak to him, and Francis, quaking, led him into the study. -Basil said he had been abroad. Minna had run away from him with the -children. - -"She came here," said Francis. "For all we know, she was writing to -you every day and hearing from you. She said she was hearing from you. -. . . Only just before she went she spoke about your letters. She went -back to London yesterday. You ought to be with her. . . . In my -opinion you ought to have fetched her back months ago." - -Basil seemed to have a great deal to say, but he gulped it down and -reached out for the railway guide. - -"Yes," he said. "I suppose we must try again." - -"If you want money," said Francis, "I would rather you came to me than -were obliged to any one else." - -"It isn't money. Thanks all the same." - -Francis felt his heart sink, but he let it pass. It seemed all the -more imperative to him that Basil should hurry back to London. He -bustled him out of the house and saw him to the station. - -* * * - -Three weeks passed during which no word came from Minna or Basil. -Francis did not write to them, hoping that they were settling their -differences--whatever they might be. - -One morning when he was up early he took in the letters and found one -from Minna addressed to Mary. He watched Mary read it at breakfast. -Without looking up she thrust it back into its envelope, her hand -trembling so that the paper rustled, and slipped it into her pocket. - -"Who's your letter from," asked Mrs. Folyat. Francis held his breath. - -"It's from Fawcett's, the music-publishers. They haven't got the piece -I wanted. Perhaps I didn't give the name right." - -Francis breathed again. - -Mary disappeared soon after breakfast. She went to Serge's studio. He -was out. She waited for him all day and had nothing to eat. She did -not even light the gas but sat thinking, thinking on no thought. Serge -found her in the dark. - -"Why, Mary!" he said. - -She held out Minna's letter, and he sat and read it. - -"Have you told anybody at home?" - -"No. It's too awful." - -"It isn't awful at all. It's very silly of them to be angry with each -other." - -"But divorce. . . . It's wicked." - -"Nonsense. It may be necessary. It often is. . . . She'll want a good -deal of sympathy." - -"She doesn't deserve any." - -"How absurd you screwed-up people are! You don't give sympathy because -people deserve it, but because they need it." - -Mary pondered that for a moment or two. Then she asked: - -"What did you say I was?" - -"Screwed-up." - -Mary said nothing. - -"We'd better burn this," said Serge. "We shall have to be discreet. -Letters nearly always convey wrong impressions." - -"Shall I write to Minna?" - -"If you want to. Don't give her your opinion. She won't want it." - -"Who is to tell them at home?" - -"I will, if you like." - -"That's what I wanted you to do. . . . I felt that something was -happening all the time Minna was here." - -"I'll go home with you now." - -"I think the sooner the better. . . . Something awful might happen." - -* * * - -Serge found his father in the greenhouse and went straight to the -point. Francis was in his shirt-sleeves. He laid down his trowel and -very slowly put on his coat. - -"I knew something was happening, but I never thought it could be as -bad as that." - -He sat down heavily and blinked through his spectacles. - -"I seem," he said, "I seem to have brought my children into the world -to very little happiness. I suppose Minna ought never to have married -a poor man. . . . It's very queer, Serge, very queer. One reads of -these things and the rights and wrongs of them appear to be very -simple. They happen in one's own family and the rights and wrongs -don't appear so simple. . . . If Minna were to come in now, I should -be glad to see her. I should at least know that she was safe. . . ." - -"The truth is," said Serge, "that the rights and wrongs don't matter. -You either love people or you don't. If you love them, you help them. -If you don't, some one else does." - -"I think," said Francis, "I had better go to London. I always liked -Basil. He always liked me. I might be able to make him see reason. -. . . Minna says she is innocent. He ought to take her back." - -"My dear father, that isn't reason. That is nonsense. . . . You're -thinking of what people will say. Public opinion doesn't matter any -more than my opinion or your opinion. If they have fallen so far apart -as to wish to break the tie between them it will be quite impossible -for them to live together without degradation----" - -"You go so fast. I can't follow you. I don't see . . ." - -"It is always degrading for a man and a woman to live together when -they have no love for each other." - -"Dear me!" murmured Francis. "Dear me!" His face wore an expression of -immense surprise. He went on muttering to himself in a puzzled way, -and finally, with a sort of triumph, as though he had found the -solution of his riddle: - -"But if they are married?" - -"My dear father, you must admit that love and marriage are two very -different things. Love is divine, marriage is human." - -"But----" - -"Marriage is not a divine ordinance. It is a respectable human -institution contrived for the comfortable existence of society." - -"I am thinking of Minna's children." - -"So am I." - -"She will lose them." - -"That is her affair. Anything is better for them than being brought up -in a house with a man and a woman who hate each other." - -"I can't admit that." - -"As a matter of principle, perhaps not; as a matter of practice, you -will, just as you took over Frederic's mess. . . ." - -"How did that turn out?" - -"Splendidly." - -Very slowly Francis turned that over in his mind and went back in -memory to the day in Mrs. Entwistle's cottage. It did not bring him -any great elucidation, but it gave him a feeling of confidence in -Serge, and, clinging to him, he said: - -"What are we to do?" - -"If you'll agree to say nothing to my mother, to write nothing to -Basil, and not to bother your head about the rights and wrongs of it, -I'll go to London and see Minna. If there's a glimmer of hope I'll do -everything I can. If there isn't, I'll see Minna through. . . . I -don't think I shall come back. I can't stay in this place much longer. -It gobbles men up and doesn't even have the decency to digest them -properly. . . . It's a machine and has no conscience about the past, -no concern for the future. It darkens men's minds so that they live -hideously and their horrible sins are visited upon their children. No, -I shan't come back. I can't. . . ." - -"There is a great deal of wickedness in this place. It is God's will," -said Francis. - -"Men's will. The will of men cheated and cozened by their own -rapacity. . . . But that is neither here nor there. Will you agree to -say nothing to my mother until you hear from me?" - -"I'll promise you that," said Francis with a little compunction, for -he saw how dark would be the days of waiting with such a secret -tugging at his heart and his wife babbling of her children's -marriages. "How did you know? Did Mary tell you?" - -"Yes, Mary told me. Mary has been rather a trump about it." - -"I shall be able to talk to Mary," thought Francis, with a sigh of -relief. - -* * * - -Serge spent the night packing and dismantling his studio. He destroyed -a great many of his pictures, called up the porter and made him a -present of his furniture and the clothes that were left after he had -packed two bags. - -In the morning he went to fetch Annie Lipsett. He found her just -leaving, but made her go back with him to see the boy. Him he hugged -and kissed, and then he gave Annie a cheque for fifty pounds for his -education. - -"And for God's sake," he said, "don't make him a gentleman. Put him to -a trade. If he's any real good he'll get out of it. If he's only -middling good he'll stay there and marry and die respectable. If he's -bad--God help you; but he won't be that." - -Annie said: - -"You're going." - -"Yes. I'm going." - -She was very plucky and fought back her tears. Serge took her -shoulders in his hands and said: - -"You and I have had a queer sort of love, an impersonal sort of -meeting in Heaven here on earth. I never understood before what it -must feel like to be a seraph--just a head and wings. We've been so -busy fighting our way up out of a slimy pit that we haven't had time -to think much about each other--only the boy." - -Annie's tears flowed freely and she clung to his hand and said: - -"You don't know what you've been to me, but I can tell you now. It was -so much to have you for my friend in that time when I had no one. I -loved you. . . ." - -"I know, I know." - -"But all that sort of love went away afterwards when I had the boy. It -has been a great thing for him too. . . ." - -"I've learned a lot from him." - -"That's so wonderful about you. You seem to be always learning. And -now you're going. I used to dread your going, but now it doesn't hurt -me at all. . . . You will always have me to think gladly of you." - -"And I of you. . . . We've made the world richer by a friendship." - -"I want to say thank you," she said, "but I can't, not enough." - -"Of course you can't. . . . Come along." - -* * * - -In a few hours Serge was in the express for London. He had a portfolio -of pictures and drawings, two bags, and one hundred and twenty pounds -in notes. As the train passed out of the dingy murk and his eyes -lighted on the green, undefiled country, he drew in great breaths and -found it hard not to shout for joy in the new zest for adventure that -had come to him. - -"That seraph notion," he thought, "I wonder where it comes from? That -curious hunger for the state of childhood, the pretence that it is -superior to adult life. . . . Surely it all comes from their -incompetence in managing their affairs as men and women. They seem to -lose their simplicity. I wonder why? . . . Old Lawrie must be right. -Mind, body, spirit. You can't poison the spirit. That's God, and He's -beyond contamination. Body and mind are the instruments of the spirit. -Poison the mind and the body suffers. . . . That's right. Yes: old -Lawrie's right. Fear of love and fear of death; the mind hemmed in and -losing its bright power of reflection, so that it shows only a -distorted image of life. . . . No wonder they hate life when it looks -like that. . . . It can't go on for ever. The spirit must break -through it all in time . . . in time." - -The train rushed along, and he began to think that perhaps the problem -was being solved. When men had made it so easy to escape from their -cities of captivity, would not their minds also be freed? Would there -not be a gradual adjustment of mind to larger surroundings? Or were -the minds of men so clothed with centuries of tyranny that swifter -transportation also would be used as an instrument of slavery? . . . - -"No," he thought, "there is a deeper faith in men than they know. They -endure heroically because they are sure that in the end their efforts -will lead to deliverance." - -As an ironic comment upon his reflections the train ran into a real -"old particular" London fog and was held up for half an hour outside -the station. In that half-hour his thoughts ran swiftly. He had never -been to London before, and he was moved by a boyish excitement at the -prospect of entering it. That he found absurd. It would be hardly at -all different from the place he had just left. That had held little -for him: this could hold nothing at all. He had no ambition, and often -ludicrously had learned the scorn a man can come by who prefers -anything to his own advancement; often he had seen how profitable it -was for a man to sacrifice his talent to his vanity, and how -incredible to such a man that it could be possible to sacrifice vanity -to talent. From all he had heard of London, the greatest city in the -world, its subservience to ambitious men was as immense as its renown. -In our town, Benskin and his school of little fishes had dubbed Serge -"amateur" by way of killing him. He had liked the isolation that had -followed, but now he thought that isolation could be of little use to -a man, except he could spring from it to greater freedom and a purer -joy in his work. "Amateur." . . . Being interpreted, that means one -who loves his work, as its contrary, "professional," signifies one who -works for gain. . . . These cities were professional. They rejected -him, as they rejected all amateurs. . . . So be it. Serge felt no -bitterness. He was a free man. He asked nothing: he had been given -much, first of all the power to enjoy. . . . He chuckled to think that -the only usefulness the suspicious world of professional men would -allow him lay--apparently--in succouring females in distress. -Knight-errantry, once the loftiest of professions, was descended into -the hands of the contemned amateurs. - -"At bottom," said Serge, "the difference between them and me is that I -take women seriously and they don't." - -* * * - -His stay in London was shorter even than he had thought it would be. -He visited Basil first, and found him working desperately, paintings, -charcoal drawings, black-and-white, Christmas cards, book -illustrations, designs for menus, chocolate boxes--all slipshod, -formal, but just neatly and obviously charming. Through his teeth he -asked Serge what the hell he had come for and went on working. Serge -turned over a pile of drawings on the table by the window. - -"Benskin would dote on you now. . . . How you must hate art to be able -to do them so well!" - -Basil grunted. "I hate everything." - -"You always were extreme." - -Basil laid down his pen. - -"Did she send you?" - -"No. She doesn't know I'm in London. I came to you first because I -thought your point of view might be helpful when I come to tackle her. -I've got nothing to go upon except her letter to Mary, which wasn't -particularly illuminating." - -"It wouldn't be. It's just funny to her--just funny, do you hear? I've -implored her, on my knees I've begged her just to help me to -understand her, to give me some clue as to what it is that she really -wants, to keep us from going to smash, and she just sat and listened -to me with that slow grin of hers. . . . I frightened her, I think, -the last time, and the grin faded from her face, but she became as -hard as a stone. . . . She didn't care. She didn't care. And I think -she wanted to break me. . . . She hasn't done it. Do you hear? She -hasn't done it!" - -"Did you weep?" - -"I . . . I broke down." - -"Ah! Not a good way of convincing her of your capacity to give her -what she wants." - -Basil strode angrily about the studio, waving his arms and shouting. - -"It's not a bit of good. It's done now. . . . It's all over. It's -finished." - -"It won't be finished until you've done thinking about it. There -doesn't seem to be much prospect of that." - -"I'm not going to discuss it with you." - -"I don't want to. What are the facts? You've accused her of -infidelity. Who's the man?" - -"Fry. . . . His wife's divorcing him. That's evidence enough, isn't -it?" - -"I'm not concerned with the evidence. I only want to know whether it's -necessary that there should be a divorce." - -"She's left me." - -"I might persuade her to return." - -"Could you?" - -"I might. . . ." - -"I'll forgive her. . . . If she will come to me as a contrite woman. -. . ." - -"That's slush. If you are going to spend your lives in quarrelling as -to which is really the magnanimous party, I shan't stir a finger. -. . . Do you want her?" - -"If she . . ." - -"If you want her, there can be no conditions. . . ." - -"But she . . ." - -Serge saw that it was hopeless. Basil was clinging to his grievances, -nursing them, cherishing them. They had become more precious to him -than his own happiness, than his wife, than the well-being of his -children. . . . Still there was hope that on Minna's side there might -be magnanimity and generosity enough to uproot the thick-set hedge -with which Basil had surrounded himself. - -* * * - -Minna was in rooms in the Marylebone Road, near Madame Tussaud's. She -had a woman friend with her, a queer inanimate creature who looked as -though she had stepped out of the waxworks--a model of Nell Gwynne. -Minna seemed quite happy. She was lying on a sofa eating Turkish -delight and reading "Jane Eyre." She dropped her book as Serge entered -and her friend glided away. - -"I _am_ glad to see you," she said. "It's so dull. Isn't it a beastly -business?" - -"I've just been to see Basil." - -"Is he still weeping?" - -Serge ignored that question and asked her another. - -"What's the trouble between you two?" - -"Basil says I'm----" - -"I know that, but that's only the outcome of the trouble." - -Minna was interested. She sat up on the sofa with her hands between -her knees. - -"How clever you are, Serge! No one else has ever thought of that. -Everybody else is quarrelling as to whether I did or did not." - -"Did you?" - -"No. That comes long after the mischief's done. The trouble between -Basil and me is simply this. Basil wants me to be a mother to him and -I can't. People are simply sickening about mothers. I'm a woman first -and a mother afterwards. Being a mother grows out of being a woman. -. . . Basil wants me to be a work of art in theory and a mother in -practice. I simply couldn't do it. . . . It's my own fault. I knew -Basil was like that before I married him. I had a sort of blind moment -when I thought I could change him. You can't change people. I can't -change myself. . . . I ought to have left him long ago, but Basil's -the sort of man you can't leave. He clings. He plays on your nerves -and makes you frightened. He looks at you with his big eyes and seems -so helpless that you're afraid to leave him, and you don't like -hurting him. He simply _makes_ you be a mother to him and then takes -advantage of it, and things go from bad to worse. . . . London seemed -to frighten him, took away all his courage and his ambition. London's -too big for him. He wants to be at the top of the tree all at once, -simply because he's afraid of the climb. . . . We should have done -better to stay at home." - -"That wouldn't have made any difference." - -"No, I suppose not. I am I and Basil is Basil and that's the whole -story, and it's just like a man of that sort to turn round and try to -kill you when you won't let him cling to you any longer." - -Minna's voice became venomous. - -"Grievances again!" thought Serge, and he saw then how impossible was -his position. He could not tell Minna of Basil's willingness to take -her back upon conditions. Either of them or both must surrender their -grievances if anything were to be done. That seemed to be extremely -improbable. - -"You will not go back, then?" - -"I'm quite willing to go back, if Basil----" - -More conditions! Oh, the folly of insistence upon rights! . . . Serge -dropped the subject, accepted the inevitable and asked: - -"Then it is to go on?" - -"That rests with Basil." - -"If he does not withdraw the petition I suppose you will not defend." - -"I shall defend my honour if I have to spend my last penny on it. I'm -not going to have mud thrown at me and say 'Thank you' for it. I don't -trust Basil. He's a vindictive little beast. He's sure to say our -marriage was happy. . . . Besides, I must think of the children." - -"I wish you would." - -"I do. Their mother's honour is precious to them." - -"Personally," said Serge, "I would sell my honour for twopence." - -"Oh! you! . . . But then you don't care what anybody thinks of you." - -"Not a straw." - -"Then it isn't any good talking to you. You really are an immoral man. -. . . If Basil goes for me, I shall go for him. You'd hold up the -other cheek, I know, but then you're not human. I told my children -once to think before they struck, and Benny said, 'I do think, and -then I strike. . . .' I'm like that too. I'm not going to listen to -you. I'm not going back to Basil, I'm not going to lie down and let -him weep over my sins in public. He's a little beast and everybody -shall know that he's a little beast. . . ." - -Minna had worked herself up into a state of anger. She was hot and red -in the face with it, and looked coarse and unpleasant. - -Serge said to himself: - -"No wonder knight-errantry is dead, since women have taken upon -themselves to be as stupidly selfish as men." - -He made one last effort, and suggested that she should take the more -sensible course and leave it to Basil unopposed to set the cumbrous -machinery of the law in motion, if only for the sake of her father and -mother. To that Minna only replied with a brilliant but spiteful -caricature of Mrs. Folyat's state of mind as slowly she digested the -unpalatable truth that all marriages were not made in Heaven. - -* * * - -Serge wrote to Francis that night and told him that there was no hope, -since both Minna and Basil were resolute to part. All that could be -looked for was that they would injure each other as little as possible -in the process. So far as he could see, the pain of uprooting was -over. The pair were absolutely divorced. Unhappily, they seemed -determined to call down on each other the disapprobation of the world, -in their frenziedly childish desire to hurt each other. . . . Serge -begged Francis to make his mother take a reasonable, human view of it, -since Minna would need friendliness and assistance, and suggested that -he should come to an arrangement with Basil's family for the -maintenance of the children. - -His letter ended thus: - -"Good-bye, my dear father. I was your first disappointment, but in the -end you and I recognised each other. That is permanent. It will be -with me wherever I go, with you to the end of your life. You are of -those who believe that understanding is not given to us. Your belief -must be a bitter comfort to you. I believe that men are rapidly coming -to an end of their material activity so that soon they will be forced -to find understanding or perish. . . . Do you remember a night when -you and I watched the rest acting an absurd play, and I said -involuntarily, 'Round the corner'? Modern life is theatrical. -Everybody is playing a part, because they are without understanding. -Life for modern men and women is for ever round the corner because -they attempt to tackle their affairs with the minds of children, -children who believe everything they are told and examine nothing. -They play with everything. They can do nothing else. Unhappily, life -is a serious business which yields its reward of joy only to -simplicity, sincerity, and purity, or, if you like the old trinity -better--faith, hope, and charity. The old beliefs are true--nearly all -that you preach, I mean; but from repetition they have become stale -and meaningless. They need restatement. . . . I am going back to the -sea, not because I believe that the 'great wide spaces of the -earth'--what a lot of twaddle is talked about them!--have a monopoly -of truth, but because I must move and keep moving. It is in the air. -Perhaps I feel it before other men. The salvation of human life lies -in movement, circulation. . . . More simply and less philosophically I -am going because it amuses me to go. I like passing through the world -saluting the few men of courage and good heart whom one can find, and, -of such men, my dear father, I count you not the least." - -Francis kept this letter and through his hours of torment often read -it. It let in air. - - - -XXXII - -THE CUTTING OF A KNOT - -_Fear, and the pit, and the snare, are upon thee, O inhabitant of the -earth._ - ISAIAH, xxiv. 17. - -IT is one of the most disconcerting phenomena of existence that, when -passionate love has answered its purpose, it simply disappears, -leaving its instruments wedded by such truth as they have discovered -in each other or divorced by the lies they have forged for each -other's delight. Very rarely, however, is the issue so simple. The -bone-and-shadow business comes into play here also, and most people -marry with very little passionate love and a great deal of careful -imitation of it, so that most marriages are strangled in their birth -with a very tangled web of lies. - -It was so with Frederic and Jessie Folyat in their marriage, and they -were never so nearly united as when jealousy came between them. Their -marriage feast did coldly furnish forth the funeral of love, and over -love's dead body they quarrelled. They had scenes, hysterical -skirmishes and almost as hysterical reconciliations. There was grim -sport in it all, a sort of fascination in the stealthy prying and -spying, each crouching and shrinking in readiness for the other's -spring, the snarling bravado with which each dared the other to come -on, a little further, a little further, inviting to a caress, -repelling with a scratching blow; and all smooth-seeming, veiled, -polite, with polished airs and graceful manners and feigned interest -and inquiry: a pooling of the common stock only to wrangle over the -division of it again. The gambling fever was in it. At any moment all -might be lost upon a throw, a little gain, a little loss, more gain, -more gain, a little more and the other might be beggared, the game -won. But neither dared let the game come to an end. When one was near -ruin, grey-faced, anxiously glaring for the turn of the card, the -other cheated and the game went on. It absorbed both. Neither could do -without it. It was a drug. Their craving for it was agony; its -satisfaction a seeming delight. - -They were very skilful and cunning to let no trace of it appear on the -surface of their lives. Frederic abandoned all pursuit of Annie -Lipsett, he deserted the company of his flattering fools, for these -things trespassed upon the field of his fevered sport. It was very -rarely that they went of their own accord to seek purchasable -pleasures. Visits they paid, when politeness and discretion compelled, -and everybody found them charming. They could be good company and -their talents were useful. They became popular and were much in -request to organise entertainments, bazaars, jumble sales, and such -functions. - -* * * - -In his business Frederic became more cunning, quicker-witted, and his -reputation gained. His practice increased. His whole life was -concentrated on his home and his office. He grew lean and alert, but -he was always tired. - -In the early days of his management of the Bradby-Folyat estate he had -borrowed large sums of money. These debts he was able considerably to -reduce, and very soon there were no arrears of interest outstanding. -As he began to feel himself on more solid ground his habit of -exaggeration lost much of its hold upon him, and men who had -previously avoided him began to seek his company. Many who had -dismissed him as a bore now came to see qualities in him, and, as he -gained the acquaintance of a better class of men, the quality of the -work that passed through his hands improved. - -Over Minna's disaster he behaved well. He explained the legal aspect -of divorce to his father, and by telling him what he heard men saying -about it--men who had known Basil Haslam, men of the world--helped him -to understand that there was less malice than idle curiosity in -gossip, that scandal was the thing of a day, and that sympathy was to -a great extent on Minna's side and altogether with her parents. . . . -Francis was not greatly comforted. He felt that the attitude of mind -of Frederic's "men of the world" was rather dirty, but he appreciated -the kindness, which was greater than he had looked for. He was not at -all easy, remembering Serge's and his own attitude towards Frederic's -imbroglio, when Frederic rushed up to town, pounced on Herbert Fry, -and insisted on his marrying Minna. . . . As it happened, it was a -fatal step. Minna complied only because she thought the marriage would -infuriate Basil (the horrible ordeal through which she had passed had -deprived her of all control), and Fry because he loved her and because -his affairs were more complicated than any one knew save himself, and, -having to leave the country, he preferred to pass into exile with a -beloved companion. His life had come to ruin, and he thought that to -have Minna for his wife would be a step towards reconstruction and -would help to blot out the past. . . . Frederic came back glowing with -virtue and manly pride, feeling that he had made an honest woman of -his sister. - -Frederic's interview with Herbert Fry had seemed to him a direct -triumph of right over wrong. It was the first time he had ever found -himself in the van of the big battalions, and it gave him a feeling of -confidence that was almost exhilarating. He returned to his wife, to -find that her suspicion of him was not abated, and convinced himself -that she was cruel and unjust. He gambled in marriage more recklessly -than ever, and if before she had been anxious, now she was filled with -dread as she saw that she was playing a losing game. Sooner or later -he would have cleared her out and the last tie between them would be -broken. Her dread paralysed her. Only mechanically could she keep the -cards fluttering and the pot a-boiling. - -* * * - -Frederic lost his drawn look. He was winning, and was sure that the -luck would never turn again. Feeling immeasurably superior to Fry, who -had committed the unpardonable folly of being found out, and morally -on a different plane from Minna and the world of illicit love which -had spewed her out to the scorn of all men (except men of the world, -who could wink at these things), he fell back upon the cushion of -middle-class prosperity, thrust aside happiness as a thing to be -desired, and concentrated all his energies on money. He began to -speculate--successfully at first, then unsuccessfully. In his early -days of practice it had hardly been worth while to keep his accounts -separate, and, as his business grew, he never troubled to reorganise -his books. - -Mrs. Bradby-Folyat died. She had taken a dislike to Gertrude and left -Streeten Folyat only a thousand pounds. Frederic received twenty-five -pounds to buy a mourning ring. That did not fret him. There was the -estate to be wound up, and the pickings of the process would be rich. - -The executors asked to see the accounts. Frederic made them up, but -they were found so slovenly and unsatisfactory that further inquiry -was instituted and an accountant was called in--a precise, mincing -little man who spoke with a strong north-country accent, sniffed, and -walked in and out of the office as though he were treading the aisle -of a chapel. He exasperated Frederic so that he went out of his way to -be rude to him. The accountant sniffed and smugly turned the other -cheek. He was a week in the office and went away without saying a -word. - -Frederic received a letter from one of the executors requesting him to -hand over all papers and securities to another larger firm of -solicitors. Without comment a statement of account was enclosed, -showing a deficit in the Bradby-Folyat estate of six thousand pounds. -Every nerve in Frederic's body quivered and went hot and dry. He -locked the statement away and gave orders for the Bradby-Folyat -deed-box to be handed over to the representatives of the nominated -solicitors upon their giving a receipt for it. Mechanically, with a -fevered concentration upon the figures as an occupation to keep -himself from thinking, he went into his banking account. He had three -hundred pounds in cash. His shares, which would have to be sold at a -loss, would realise another thousand. Outstanding debts amounted to -not two hundred. . . . His wife's money was hers upon trust for her -children, or, failing her children, for her nephews and nieces. All -the Clibran-Bell money was trust money. His father had none, only -enough to make a small provision for his old age and his wife and -Mary. - -The executor called. He was polite--a barrister by profession, with -the most suave and urbane brow-beating manner. He supposed that the -numerous mistakes could be rectified, and that where losses had -occurred through incompetent investment the deficiency would be made -good. Frederic said not a word. He twiddled a little piece of paper -between his fingers and his face was as white as the paper. The -executor drew his own conclusions and said: - -"It is misappropriation and embezzlement. I have tried to persuade -Batson's not to take proceedings, but they insist that it must go -before the Law Society. . . . You will be lucky if you get no worse -than being struck off the rolls." - -The words bit into Frederic's brain and went trickling down his spine. -The executor took his hat and left him sitting by his table still -twiddling the little piece of paper, with his face as grey as a -goose-feather. He sat very still for a long time staring at the piece -of paper in his hand. Presently he let it fall, but still he sat -staring. . . . He heard his clerks go. The cashier brought the key of -the safe. He said good-night. Frederic said good-night, and was -startled at the sound of his own voice. The silence had seemed to him -so inevitable, so final, surely eternal. - -One thought sprang to life in his brain: "No one must know." That gave -him a purpose and brought him to the need of action. At home he forced -an amiable mood upon his wife. In the evening they called at Burdley -Park and took Mary to the theatre. They saw her home after a merry -evening, and, in the highest spirits, they called on the Clibran-Bells -and invited some of the family to come and play whist on the morrow. -Frederic smoked a cigar with his father-in-law and discussed the new -waterworks scheme and the police scandal which had lately set all the -town by the ears, a whole division having been discovered to be -drawing large profits from organised prostitution in a certain -district. Many droll stories were in circulation of constables caught -_in flagrante delicto_, and Frederic and his father-in-law laughed -heartily over them. At certain moments Frederic had a crazy desire to -pick his father-in-law up by the scruff of the neck and shake him: -there was something in his manner so ridiculous and undignified, and -his jocularity was so trivial and pointless. However, Frederic -continued to laugh, and old Clibran-Bell patted him on the shoulder -and told him he was a good fellow, a very good fellow. - -In the office next day Frederic teased and pestered his clerks and -kept them all bustling, finding errands for them to go, requiring -books from the Law Library, discovering papers that were long overdue -and had to be fetched. Seized with a wild, hilarious impulse, he made -out a whole series of bogus writs and sent them to be stamped and -delivered. . . . When all the clerks had gone he sat down and wrote to -Batson's, saying that he had made further inquiries and had many -papers and much information to lay before them which had previously -been overlooked, and he added that such deficiency as might remain -after final examination would be paid in full. This letter he posted -himself. He returned to his office, wrote a cheque for each of his -clerks, repaid his articled clerks their premiums, laid an envelope -containing them on each desk, looked round to make sure he had -forgotten nothing, locked the outer door, walked down to the bridge by -the Collegiate church and threw the key into the river. - -At night, after the whist-party had dispersed, he pretended that he -had papers to look into and sent Jessie to bed. He sat by the fire -staring into the glowing coals. It died down, but he made no effort to -keep it alight. He was exhausted. The assumed hilarity of the evening -had been too great a strain, and yet not strain enough. He was driving -himself to a collapse, but was fearful lest it should come too soon. - -It was very cold. He shivered and crouched over the black grate. He -heard his wife's voice calling him: - -"Aren't you coming up to-night?" - -"Presently . . . presently." - -When he judged that she would be asleep he crept upstairs, and in the -dark, to avoid waking her and also to avoid seeing her, he slipped -into the bed by her side. All night he lay awake, cold, throbbing, -straining and starting at all the small noises of the house. - -At breakfast he chattered gaily over the newspapers. There was a -school board election toward, and a woman had offered herself as a -candidate for their division. He chaffed Jessie and said he supposed -she would soon be wanting to vote for Parliament. Jessie was to spend -the day in town shopping with her mother. He asked her to make sundry -small purchases for him, and they agreed that they would have a crab -for supper. - -He was rather a long time packing the little handbag he always took -with him to town. She went to remind him that it was getting late and -found him with his hand in a drawer. He shut it hastily and asked her -to fetch his tobacco-pouch from upstairs. When she came down again he -was waiting for her at the front door. She walked to the little iron -gate with him and they kissed. As he reached the kerb he turned to -look at her and saw the old ladies and gentlemen at their windows, and -he felt with a twinge of shame that for years he had been a spectacle -without knowing it. . . . He thought Jessie looked rather ill, tired, -old, and bony. It was absurd for them to kiss in public. . . . -Everything seemed absurd, fantastical, and unreal. The world was -presented to his eyes in sharper outline than he had ever seen it -before. It was bathed in a cold grey light. It had nothing to do with -him. It was going on. He felt stationary. That his body was moving was -nothing. His thoughts were not moving. Everything was absurd. The new -sharply outlined world, with its curious interwoven activities (he saw -how they were dovetailed), was moving on. The world with which he had -been concerned--the world in which he had been miserable, elated, -crestfallen, amused, disgusted--the world in which he had known -affection and companionship and spite and jealousy--was moving -backward, sinking from under his feet while he himself stood on the -verge of a nonsensical dawn that had its light from a setting sun. -Away from him, backward and forward, everything moved faster and -faster, making him dizzy, intolerably dizzy, sick and cold with it. - -He had intended to go to London, but at the station he saw a sign -indicating a train for Plymouth. The name started out of the blurred -past and relieved him, a little restored his balance, and he saw -clearly the scenes of his boyhood--the grimy little office where he -had been articled, the ships, the Hoe and the Sound. Then all that too -slipped away from him. - -He took the train for Plymouth, and had a carriage all to himself as -far as Crewe. He sat stupidly staring out of the window. The train was -going so fast. Why did everything move so fast? . . . He was very -tired. At Crewe a man entered the carriage. He had not thought of -that. He must change. He must be alone. The train moved on before he -could bring himself to stir. . . . With the presence of the man at the -other end of the carriage his mood changed. Out of the cold mists that -were upon him a desire rose and took possession of him. He did not -know what desire it was but it took the form of an itch to speak to -the man. He stole glances at him but his lips would not obey him. The -man said: - -"It's a fine day." - -Frederic agreed that it was a fine day, and the desire in him fell -back into the void. The man was part of the absurd world that had -nothing to do with him, the world that went on, the trivial, silly -world. How trivial and silly everything was: the train was silly, -movement was silly; absurd and grotesque was the man's voice and his -idiotic comment on the day, and that was silly too. A day was but the -passage out of night into night. The whole world was nothing, moving -out of nothing into nothing. Some things were clear because they did -not matter; other things were blurred because they had mattered to -him, Frederic, who mattered no longer because he was standing still -and everything else was moving. . . . His eyes mechanically read the -legend--"To Stop the Train Pull Down the Cord Outside the Window. -Penalty for Improper Use, £5." - -"I could stop it," he thought, "but it would only move on again. -Everything moves on again." - -With that slight movement in his mind old habit reasserted itself and -he began to crave for self-pity, but the unfamiliar presence of the -man made that impossible. That habit of mind needed the co-operation -of other habits. It was isolated and fell away again. . . . There had -been so much clear-cut action in the last few hours, action for a -purpose, action that could not be recalled and therefore drove him on -to the fulfilment of the purpose. - -"I must be alone," thumped Frederic's mind, and the train-wheels took -it up, "alone, alone, alone." - -He became exasperated with the presence of the other man. What right -had he in the world where there was nothing but Frederic, nothing at -all, an empty world where a man must at last make sure, make very -sure, that he is nothing? - -The man got out at Bristol. It seemed to Frederic that he had come and -gone like a shadow. So little time, the emptiness of the world moving -so swiftly, and through it Plymouth coming nearer and nearer to him. -Plymouth appeared to him as a sort of monster, a dogging shadow that -had run after him for a long time, terrifying him, to spring ahead and -come to meet him. And yet it was still behind. Everything was two -things, behind and in front; the contradiction made it nothing. . . . - -He was frozen with terror. Back, back, this way; no, that; now the -other. . . . "It will have me! It will have me! Why? I am nothing. I -am nothing. It doesn't believe that I am nothing. . . . No, no. There -is nothing but myself, myself, myself. . . ." - -He drew the revolver from his pocket. - -"No, no. I will go back. I will go back." - -He sat absolutely numbed for a long time. Suddenly he thought of his -wife, coldly, clearly. He saw himself in her. She was stronger than -he. He must show her that he was the stronger. - -He thought of his father and passed into a golden stream of peace. He -would go to his father. . . "I will arise and go to my father and say -unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee and am -no more worthy to be called thy son.' . . ." His father would -understand as he had understood before. . . . But then he knew that -all that his mother had thought of him would be sponged away from her -mind, and he remembered with what bitterness she had spoken of Minna. - -"Too difficult," he thought. "Too many people." - -The train gathered speed down an incline. Faster and faster. His -terror lest the journey should come to an end clutched him back into -the present. He must make haste. He must be the quicker. - -He had dropped the revolver into his pocket again. Now he fumbled for -it. It caught in the lining, and he tugged at it with feverish -impatience. . . . His heart leaped on the report, which seemed to come -from far away. . . . He felt nothing; less and less; out of the -swiftly moving world he was sinking downward, downward, gathering -speed, falling, falling into nothing. - -* * * - -In the small hours of the morning Mr. Clibran-Bell rang furiously at -the bell of the house in Burdley Park. After many minutes Francis came -down in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand. Mr. Clibran-Bell -stepped into the hall. - -"Frederic," he said, "has not been home all night. Jessie is at my -house. . . . My dear friend, my dear old friend . . ." - -"Has . . . something happened?" - -"He's . . . he's at Plymouth. Dead. They found him in the train, shot -in the side." - -Francis stood very still, his mind slowly grasping this new appalling -fact. Tears trickled down his cheeks into his beard. - -"I shall go to Plymouth by the first train," said Mr. Clibran-Bell, "I -must get at the truth for Jessie's sake." - -"Yes. It is very good of you." - -It was a long time after Mr. Clibran-Bell had gone before Francis went -upstairs again. The candle burnt itself out. His thoughts see-sawed up -and down. - -"Frederic--dead. Frederic--dead." - -When he had groped his way back to his own existence, burdened with -this new catastrophe, he said to himself: - -"I can't go on. . . . I can't go on." - -He saw Frederic lying huddled in the corner of a railway carriage, -strangers to whom he was nothing finding him. . . . Then he thought of -that other dead body that he had seen long, long ago, the woman lying -in the little dark house, under the guttering light of the tallow -candle and the clement light of the moon. Death violent, death -insistent, death that would not be shrouded away or softened or made -seeming blessed with words or tears. Tears! Death was too harsh. And -yet it mattered nothing how it came about. It was always the same: -bitter, the bitter end to bitterness. All life was salt with the -savour of death. Vain, vain the endeavour to sweeten it. Sweetness and -corruption, were they not yoke-fellows? . . . Words from the Bible -passed through Francis Folyat's mind: "I am the resurrection and the -Life," and again: "For behold, the days are coming in which they shall -say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the -paps which never gave suck," and again in his bitter grief he turned -to the Book of Job: - -"My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my -heart. - -"They change the night into day: the light is short because of -darkness. - -"If I wait, the grave is mine house; I have made my bed in the -darkness. - -"I have said to corruption, Thou art my father: to the worm, Thou art -my mother and my sister. - -"And where is now my hope? As for my hope, who shall see it? - -"They shall go down to the base of the pit where our rest together is -in the dust." - - - -XXXIII - -THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER - -_The vision of Christ that thou dost see - Is my vision's greatest enemy. - Thine has a great hook nose like thine - Mine has a snub nose like to mine._ - THE EVERLASTING GOSPEL. - -TWELVE middle-class Englishmen and an official sat in inquest on the -body of Frederic. They gazed shyly and uninterestedly upon it and then -heard the evidence to the effect that he was most happily married and -was without financial worry of any kind. . . . The verdict, in view of -the fact that the revolver was in the deceased's overcoat pocket, was -one of death by misadventure. - -Francis learned the truth from Mr. Clibran-Bell. Mrs. Folyat was not -told, neither was Jessie. Queer things were rumoured, however, and -Mrs. Folyat began to feel--not absolutely without foundation--that she -was looked upon askance. She went into deep mourning and raised -Frederic to sainthood, and surrounded herself with relics from among -his personal belongings. She brooded over the past and began to piece -together her scattered memories. Nothing took clear shape except, what -she had not seen at the time, the long coolness between her husband -and her son, and she began to charge and reproach Francis with it. By -vilifying Francis she had the illusion that she was exalting Frederic. -She kept insisting that Francis must be sorry now that her poor angel -was dead. Francis was remorseful. He was probing deeper and deeper -into the unillumined past, groping his way through tortuous -mole-galleries. The perpetual false deification of Frederic bothered -him, his wife's voice, lachrymose and thin, dinning in his ears, was -an exasperation. He was busy, frantically busy, forcing his way with -all the strength of his nature out of the slough of despond into which -he had fallen, and she seemed intent on thrusting him out of the -slough into a sea of treacly mud. At length, one day, when she had -raised Frederic a peg higher in her idolatrous beatification, suddenly -the truth was wrenched from him: - -"Can you not see that he meant to kill himself?" - -"Oh! Frank . . . !" - -He could despitefully have bitten his tongue out for having said it, -but, having done so, he owed it to her to go on. It might prove her -salvation. It might bring her back to him so that together they might -perceive and win to the ways of brightness. - -"He took the pistol with him in his pocket. He had no luggage with -him. He had locked the door of his office and paid up his clerks' -wages and the premiums of his pupils." - -"Oh! Frank . . . Oh! Frank!" - -And Francis hoped that she would turn to him and understand, but her -very anguish of sorrow she must turn to self-indulgence, and she moved -from the luxury of worship to the luxury of self-accusation: - -"We drove him to it. All of us. We never understood him." - -She told Jessie, who was prostrated by the knowledge, and Mr. -Clibran-Bell refused ever to enter the Folyats' house again. - -Francis passed through the very blackest hours of all after that. He -prayed to his God but was not comforted; his mind would run only in -the harshest channels of the faith he had spent his life in teaching. -The God he found was a jealous God, a God of cruelty and vengeance and -punishment. In vain he told himself that this was the just visitation -of sins. He could not believe it. All his spirit craved for the belief -in mercy, the living eternity, the life everlasting. He was hemmed in -by the habit of years, and long familiarity with things sacred, all -the vocabulary of paradox that had flowed so easily from his lips week -in, week out, year after year. He wanted the truth of it, but it was -all words, words, words, a rain of fine dust falling upon his -intelligence, blinding his eyes. He needed that in his religion which -could square with and illuminate the facts of his existence, but ever -the darkness grew more impenetrable. - -For three weeks he went on mechanically with his work, going blindly -through the ritual which he had fought so hard to establish, but -always when he came to the Benediction and commended the congregation -to the Peace of God, he knew, could not away with the knowledge, that -there was no peace in his own heart, and he rebuked himself and called -himself Hypocrite. - -He could not take refuge in self-torment. His need was too great. He -told himself that he no longer believed, and prayed for help in his -unbelief. But there had always been faith in him. Nothing had ever -shaken it. His necessity lay in the fact that the symbols he had -always used were cheapened, worn, debased. His mind could not change. -It was definitely cast in the story of the Godhead in Man in the -person of Jesus of Nazareth, born of the Virgin birth, persecuted and -slain by the Jews to rise again in glory to the eternal salvation of -souls. . . . The teaching of this gospel should, if it had any -purpose, lead to noble life, a superb preparation for eternity. But -whither had it led himself? To the smallest of small lives, to the -ruin of two of his children, fallen into the very snares against which -they had been warned with all the threats of eternal punishment and -Hell fire at the command of an appointed minister of the Christian -religion. . . . He tried to look beyond his own family, to see what -effect the Gospel had had upon his parishioners and he could not -disguise from himself the pitifulness of their condition. To consider -the effect of the Christian religion upon the history of the world was -too large an undertaking for him. - -Serge had said that he was of those who believe that understanding is -not vouchsafed to us. What did he mean? . . . Words haunted him:--"To -justify the works of Man to God," or was it "To justify the works of -God to Man"? Surely the last. The works of Man could not be justified. -He felt himself to be near the clue he was seeking, but the effort to -follow it was beyond him. For him the only tie between Man and God was -Jesus Christ. - -He read the Gospels, and soon gave up trying to unravel the hard -sayings, but he read again and again every passage in which the words -Love and Mercy occurred. They soothed him, and, reading over and over -the gentleness of Jesus under persecution, he became softened and very -tender, and sought the company of children, his grandchildren. - -He rested for a fortnight and then took up his work, for one Sunday -only. All the old business of threatening and hectoring and denouncing -and holding the wrath of God back with prayer, and piling up mountains -upon mountains of sin to teach the love and mercy of the Gospel -through and after punishment, everlasting and relentless, was empty, -all sound and fury. - -His conclusion was, not that the Christian religion had become -theatrical, rhetorical, mechanical, inhuman and unjust, but that he -himself by his own life had become unworthy to administer it. Like -many Christians, faced with the difficult, almost (in these days) -impossible, task of distilling the essential truth from its -accumulation of tainted lumber, he took refuge, without seeing any -inconsistency, in the ascetic ideal, thinking that a life of absolute -chastity and poverty and abstraction from the things of this world -would give a man the right to hurl thunder and the lightnings of the -Jewish Bible at his fellow men. And yet in his heart, as, latent in -the hearts of all men, was the true faith in the ineffable love, - - _. . . che muove 'l Sole e l'altre stelle._ - -He could not disentangle this love, this spirit of man, from the -superstition of the ages, and could not therefore let it freely move -his own existence. He told himself that he had failed, that he ought -never to have entered the priesthood, that he was an old man and could -not change. No other course lay open to him than to retire. - -He wrote to his Bishop to ask his leave, and, if it were granted, to -apply for a pension from the Diocesan fund. - -Never again did he conduct Divine service in any church. - -* * * - -He felt infinitely happier when he had done this, and a new brightness -came to Mrs. Folyat and Mary when they knew they were to escape from -the town where they had come by so much suffering, and the numbing -monotony of a rather idle existence in drab surroundings. They set -their faces southwards, for they had decided to live in Potsham, where -Francis had held his first curacy. They were going to live in -Crabtrees, where Francis Folyat and Martha Brett had met and loved -each other so long ago, and all day long Francis would be busy in the -garden running down to the river, and all day long Martha would sit in -the gazebo and look out at the water, and see the tide coming in, and -the herons fishing, and the boats go sailing by, all as it had been -long ago, peaceful and beautiful. . . . Already, weeks before they -could go, the peace of it began to fill the house in Burdley Park, and -the dark past slipped away from them and Francis began to feel the -richness of old age, when best and worst have been done, and the -fruits of reflection can be gathered in. - -Often as he sat working in the greenhouse, or in the study turning -over his books--he had gone back to the loves of his early days, -Fielding and Don Quixote--Francis would think of Serge, and the day -when together they had walked away from Mrs. Entwistle's cottage. That -memory preoccupied him more and more, and he felt a desire to see -Annie Lipsett again before he went away. She wrote to him at long -intervals to let him know that she had not forgotten. His feeling -about the episode had always been spiced with the joy of forbidden -things. It had been entirely separate from the rest of his life, and -yet, unknown to him, it had informed the whole of it, and, in his most -need, had given him the assurance of love and mercy which had upheld -him in the face of the doctrine and dogma of his Church, even though -he had seemed to himself to be upholding the Church by the sacrifice -of himself. - -* * * - -He found Annie Lipsett busy and thoughtful. She was going to be -married to an auctioneer who had been a lodger in her mother's house. -She had just had a letter from Serge in Ceylon and its friendliness -had removed her last anxieties. - -"You see, sir," she said to Francis, "Mr. Serge found me when -everything was as complicated as that piece of lace, and he made it -all simple. And after that, being with him made one able to bear -everything, because one felt that, whatever it was, it would go away. -He used to say that being unhappy and dark in your mind was just the -same as being unwell in your body, and if it was taken in time there -was always a cure for it. So funny he used to be about it. He was -always talking to me about the boy, and he used to say that I must -teach him nothing, because children are always right by themselves -until they begin to imitate grown-up people, and bad things are easier -to imitate than good because they are grotesque, and grown-up people -have always to be learning good things from children over and over -again." - -"I have never forgotten that day when I came to see you." - -"Nor I, sir." - -"We're going away, for ever. It is queer, but you are the only person -whom I really wanted to see before I left. We have never seemed to -belong to this place." - -"I used to hate it too, but Mr. Serge made me laugh at it all. He said -it was just an accident, though I didn't know what he meant by that. I -often didn't really understand Mr. Serge, except about the boy, but -then I could see that everything he said was true." - -"I hope you will be very, very happy." - -Annie surprised Francis by putting her arms round his neck and kissing -him. He returned the kiss. - -It was only some time after he had left her that it struck him that he -had never once thought of Frederic in connection with her. When he -called Frederic to his mind it was always as a graceful, impudent, -funny little boy. He had never known the man Frederic. Frederic had -never been a man. - -* * * - -Even in our town the green of spring was showing and the zestful wind -was blowing upon the blackened houses when Francis, his wife and Mary -left upon their long journey to the south. Gleeful and glad they were, -and the spring was in their hearts and the keen adventurousness of -escape. After long captivity they were shaking from their shoes the -dust of the hostile city, leaving in its toils the sole hostage of all -their family, Annette, doomed to the life of drudgery to which that -city condemns its women, for, except they be born in drudgery, the -sons of its women could never endure its service, nor would they be -fitted for it. - - - -XXXIV - -NUNC DIMITTIS SERVUM TUUM, DOMINE - -_For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation._ - THE SONG OF SIMEON. - -MANY wise men have laughed at the futility of thought and discarded an -opinion as a worthless thing. - -In the garden at Crabtrees Francis grew roses and delphiniums and tall -hollyhocks and all homely flowers, and busily he tended his vegetables -and herbs. He kept bees and grew skilled in their ways. Every day in -summer Mrs. Folyat sat in the gazebo, and in the winter she had her -own little drawing-room where the gossips would come in and take tea -over a great fire. - -Their living was very frugal, for their means were small. Only two -houses besides Crabtrees were left of Mrs. Folyat's inheritance. - -Outwardly Potsham was hardly at all changed since the day when Francis -and his bride had set out on their honeymoon, but its glory was -departed. Its fragrance and faint perfume of the high manners of an -older day were gone. Little boys whom they remembered playing -barefooted in the street called the Strand, down by the little dock -and the mud flats, had made fortunes and dispossessed little by little -the old gentlefolk. Their sons had gone to the universities and their -daughters had visited London. No longer were the inhabitants of -Potsham gently little in a little place, but in a little place aped -the follies of great cities. People and place were no longer in -harmony. Men and women seemed continually to be adjusting themselves -to an outside standard. They were as sluggards who protest their -wakefulness. . . . But for Francis and Martha, Potsham was as it had -been in their youth, a place of sleep, of tranquil sleep attended by -pleasant dreams of roses and blue water and warm figs ripening in the -sunlight mellowed by the soft, moist air. - -Their golden wedding came, their diamond-wedding, and between the two -was but the drowsy humming of bells in a lofty tower. The hair of both -was snow-white, and Francis had his brushed into two long ringlets -that fell down on to his shoulders on either side of his head. His -eyes were bright and young, often twinkling with merriment behind his -spectacles, and people used to come and tell him funny things to see -him enjoy the joke and chuckle down in his throat and shake all over -with his inward mirth. - -Gertrude often came to stay with her two children, and upon a day she -arrived and never went away. Streeten had shed his capital bit by bit -in one profession after another until he had not enough left to -support his family. Then he disappeared without a word and no trace of -him could be found. - -Every two years Annette used to come and bring with her one or more of -her children. Like her mother, she had eight. She could never stay -long because Bennett would write every day and implore her to come -back. . . . When any of her children had been ill she used to send -them down, and they stayed until Francis judged them well enough to -return, and that was never until their little pinched white faces were -filled out and baked as brown as a bun. The second boy, Stephen, once -spent five months at Crabtrees. He was a very queer, silent little -creature, and he used to sit and stare at his grandparents and his -aunts. Once, after dogging Francis for two days and scrutinising him -in the most embarrassing way, he said: - -"Grandpa, what is it makes your eyes so bright and blue, like the -sky?" - -Francis chuckled and replied: - -"My dear, they're little mirrors and I polish them." - -A great summer passed into a melancholy misty autumn, but on a rare -fine day, the sun warming the first sighing breath of winter, Stephen -Lawrie sat with a book in his lap under the Siberian crabtree on the -lawn. His grandfather was digging in the vegetable garden near by, -when, looking up, Stephen saw him pitch forward and fall flat on his -face. It was as though he had been blown down. - -The boy sat staring, stunned by the heaviness of the fall. Then he was -seized by the terror of it and rushed screaming away. - -It was a stroke, and Crabtrees became a house of the sick. Stephen was -packed off home. - -* * * - -Before the winter was out Francis seemed to be quite well again, and -he was out and about and busy preparing for the spring. February was -hardly gone when he was laid low again, this time never to rise. He -was partially paralysed and could not speak. For a long time his wits -were gone. . . . Slowly he crept back again into the existence of the -house. His spirit would not yield up his body to the earth. - -Gertrude was his nurse, and very gentle with him. She was creeping -about his room, thinking him asleep, with her shadow swinging to and -fro as she moved. In a sudden, strangled voice, she heard him say: - -"I can speak." - -She turned to him, but he lay very still, and his face looked pinched -and whiter than it had done. She was alarmed and sat up with him all -night. In the early morning he asked to see his wife. Gertrude fetched -her, and she came huddled and bunched up in shawl and flannels and sat -by his bedside. He moved his hand a little and she reached out and -took it in hers. He said: - -"It has been a long time, but it has been a good time. It has not all -been good for you. I would be glad if you--if you could forgive me -. . ." - -"Oh! my dear, my dear. . . . The best . . ." - -"I have always been afraid," he went on, and his voice gained in -strength. "I have always been afraid of saying too much, and I have -said too little. . . . It has been best when we were old. You have -much to forgive." - -Mrs. Folyat could only weep. Francis asked to be given his Bible and -the amethyst cross he had worn on Sundays on his watchchain. They were -laid by his side and he took the cross in his hand. He said that -everything he left was to go to Mary, but she was to help the others -when they needed help. . . . Then he told his wife she must go away -and rest, for he desired to communicate for the last time and must -have a space in which to prepare himself. Gertrude aided Mrs. Folyat -out of the room. - -It was All Fool's Day. - -At nine o'clock Mary was having breakfast alone when Serge walked in. -She told him, and he went up at once to his father's room. He stood by -the bed for a long time before Francis opened his eyes and saw him. -His eyes smiled and he said: - -"My son." - -"Father." - -"I am not of those who believe that understanding is not given to us, -for I came to understand. The beginning and the ending of all things -is in God, and we may not question, nor idly interpret the beginning -and the end. We pass from dust to dust, but the spirit endureth for -ever, and in all things in our passage the spirit moves us. Is it not -so?" - -"It is so." - -"And life is very good, to be rounded with a sleep." - -"Life is very good." - -"Surely I have not altogether failed my God, since I have known you." - -"We have known each other. A man must die many times before his life -be done." - -"So be it. . . . I shall sleep now." - -Serge stooped and kissed his father's brow, and in a few minutes he -was dead. - -THE END - - - -PRINTED BY -BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD -TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN -LONDON - - - -Transcriber's Note - -This transcription is based on scans digitized from a copy at the -Cornell University Library and posted by the Internet Archive at: - - https://archive.org/details/cu31924013593722 - -For reference, scans digitized by Google from a copy at Princeton -University were also consulted. This file is posted at: - - https://books.google.com/books?id=hL4sAAAAYAAJ - -The following changes to the text are noted: - --- p. 58: at the same age and the same maiden condition In -short--Added a period after "condition". - --- p. 87: The old man watched hm with a sort of hunger--Changed "hm" -to "him". - --- p. 92: She goes to his church and looks at him as though she were a -beautifully-cooked chop. He is rather like that. I shall call him the -mutton-chop when he comes.--Changed the "she" after "though" to "he". - --- p. 114: Serged plunged with a question--Changed "Serged" to -"Serge". - --- p. 142: Keep it to youself, my dear.--Changed "youself" to -"yourself". - --- p. 160: She made an effort and went on.:--Deleted the period -between "on" and the colon. - --- p. 163: "I am deeply pained and grieved, . ."--Changed the comma to -a period. - --- p. 181: Five minutes later Serge knocked at the study door. went -in, and found his father at his desk writing a letter, Francis laid -down his pen and turned.--Changed the period after "door" to a comma -and changed the comma after "a letter" to a period. - --- p. 184: Serge found rooms for Annie Lispett in a not too dull -village.--Changed "Lispett" to "Lipsett". - --- p. 216: forced into him piecemeal, so peacemeal it was -pumped--changed "peacemeal" to "piecemeal". - --- p. 247: Inserted a period at the end of the epigraph. - --- p. 280: has a me wanting a greal deal to eat--Changed "greal" to -"great". - --- p. 319: "No. That comes long after the mischief's done." "The -trouble between Basil and me is simply this.--Deleted the quotation -marks between "done." and "The trouble". - -Variant spellings such as "prejudicies," "delinquences," and -"strategems" were retained. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Round the Corner, by Gilbert Cannan - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE CORNER *** - -***** This file should be named 52729-8.txt or 52729-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/7/2/52729/ - -Produced by Paul Haxo with special thanks to Cornell -University, Princeton University, the Internet Archive, -and Google. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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